That night Larry slept on a cot set up in Hunt's studio.

Hunt had made the proposition that Larry consider the studio his headquarters for the present, and Larry had accepted.

Of course the cot and the rough-and-ready furnishings of the studio were grotesquely short of the luxury of those sunny days when Larry had had plenty of easy money and had been free to gratify his taste for the best of everything; but the quarters were infinitely more luxurious and comfortable than his more recent three-by-seven room at Sing Sing with its damp and chilly stone walls.
There were many reasons why Larry was appealed to by the idea of making his home for the present in this old house in this dingy, unexciting, unromantic street.

He was drawn toward this bluff, outspoken, autocratic painter, and was curious about him.

And then the way his grandmother had spoken, the gleam in her old eyes, had stirred an affection for her that he had never before felt.