There are certain old houses in New York City built of rose-colored brick and white stone which face Washington Square. On this morning in early winter a light snow covered the ground and clung to the bare branches of the shrubs and trees. In a drawing-room of one of the old houses a young girl was moving quietly about at work. She was alone and the room was almost entirely dismantled, the pictures having been taken down from the walls, the decorations stored away and the furniture protected by linen covers.