It was the second week in May, but as warm as summer and the flowers
were all blooming in the parks. The artists were leaving Boston early
that year. There seemed only a handful of them left in town. I had
scarcely any engagements. Mr. Sands had left, and so had four other
artists for whom I had been posing. Mr. Rintoul, too, had gone away. I
could no longer go to Mr. Parker, the man who had beaten me.