So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock.
It was late. She went downstairs to the janitor's quarters where
there was a messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas
day kept them busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was
permitted them, for it was long after dinner and the full tide of
gaiety in town was doubtless at its flood.

So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then
she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry
darkness through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking
eleven.

As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated.
But the memory of Drene's eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided
her.

After a little waiting she got Graylock's apartment. A servant
asked her to hold the wire.

After an interval she recognized Graylock's voice at the telephone,
pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the
season.

"What are you doing this Christmas night?" she asked. "Surely you
are not all alone there at home?"

"I am rather too old for anything else," he said.

"But what are you doing? Reading?"

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I happened to be cleaning an
automatic revolver when you called up."

"What a gay employment for Christmas night! Is that your idea of
celebrating?"