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One Saturday afternoon Hedger was sitting in the window of Eden’s music room. They had been watching the pigeons come wheeling over the roofs from their unknown feeding grounds.
“Why,” said Eden suddenly, “don’t we fix those big doors into your studio so they will open? Then, if I want you, I won’t have to go through the hall. That illustrator is loafing about a good deal of late.”
“I’ll open them, if you wish. The bolt is on your side.”
“Isn’t there one on yours, too?”
“No. I believe a man lived there for years before I came in, and the nurse used to have these rooms herself. Naturally, the lock was on the lady’s side.”
Eden laughed and began to examine the bolt. “It’s all stuck up with paint.” Looking about, her eye lighted upon a bronze Buddah which was one of the nurse’
