When Hedger first moved in, these rooms were occupied by a young man who tried to write plays,—­and who kept on trying until a week ago, when the nurse had put him out for unpaid rent.

A few days after the playwright left, Hedger heard an ominous murmur of voices through the bolted double doors:  the lady-like intonation of the nurse—­doubtless exhibiting her treasures—­and another voice, also a woman’s, but very different; young, fresh, unguarded, confident.  All the same, it would be very annoying to have a woman in there.  The only bath-room on the floor was at the top of the stairs in the front hall, and he would always be running into her as he came or went from his bath.  He would have to be more careful to see that Caesar didn’t leave bones about the hall, too; and she might object when he cooked steak and onions on his gas burner.

As soon as the talking ceased and the women left, he forgot them.  He was absorbed in a study of paradise fish at the Aquarium, staring out at people through the glass and green water of their tank.  It was a highly gratifying idea; the incommunicability of one stratum of animal life with another,—­though Hedger pretended it was only an experiment in unusual lighting.  When he heard trunks knocking against the sides of the narrow hall, then he realized that she was moving in at once.  Toward noon, groans and deep gasps and the creaking of ropes, made him aware that a piano was arriving.  After the tramp of the movers died away down the stairs, somebody touched off a few scales and chords on the instrument, and then there was peace.  Presently he heard her lock her door and go down the hall humming something; going out to lunch, probably.  He stuck his brushes in a can of turpentine and put on his hat, not stopping to wash his hands.  Caesar was smelling along the crack under the bolted doors; his bony tail stuck out hard as a hickory withe, and the hair was standing up about his elegant collar.

Hedger encouraged him.  “Come along, Caesar.  You’ll soon get used to a new smell.”

In the hall stood an enormous trunk, behind the ladder that led to the roof, just opposite Hedger’s door.  The dog flew at it with a growl of hurt amazement.  They went down three flights of stairs and out into the brilliant May afternoon.

Behind the Square, Hedger and his dog descended into a basement oyster house where there were no tablecloths on the tables and no handles on the coffee cups, and the floor was covered with sawdust, and Caesar was always welcome,—­not that he needed any such precautionary flooring.  All the carpets of Persia would have been safe for him.  Hedger ordered steak and onions absentmindedly, not realizing why he had an apprehension that this dish might be less readily at hand hereafter.  While he ate, Caesar sat beside his chair, gravely disturbing the sawdust with his tail.