After that they met frequently--on Sunday evenings at the Farquharsons', during the week in the studio, where for some months Clytie had taken to coming very frequently for the comfort of seeing Winifred. Clytie maintained her usual habits; Kent, as far as was possible, resumed his old ones. Sometimes it was strangely like the old days. With a little longing, perhaps, to add to the illusion, and also to give herself some employment while Winifred worked, Clytie began a picture, choosing in a humorous tenderness to take Winnie as her model. The picture never was completed, for Clytie had not the temperament to do justice to the slender figure in its quiet summer dress, and to the soft, dark face bent so earnestly over the palette and sheaf of brushes. But while the painting of it lasted it gave a comfortable air of reality to the revival. It was new life to Kent to come in on his return and once more receive Clytie's friendly nod as she stood by the easel, a painting-apron over her dainty dress, and her hands smudged with charcoal or daubs of paint. He did not think much of the portrait, and he told her so with laughing frankness. But he divined why she was doing it, and while criticising, encouraged her to proceed. His arrival, however, as it always had been, was a signal for the cessation of work. Then Winifred cleaned the brushes and put them in the trays, and gathered up the tubes and rags which Clytie, with less sense of tidiness, had strewed around her, and Clytie drew out the basket-table and rang the bell for Mrs. Gurkins to bring up the tea. Clytie had left behind her all her small domestic articles for Winnie's use in the studio. So there was the familiar tea-service, the Crown-Derby cups and apostle spoons,--a piece of wicked extravagance on Clytie's part in times gone by,--the gray Japanese teapot whose wicker handle had still to be delicately fingered, and the little glass sugar-bowl that looked so plebeian beside the aristocratic porcelain. Scarcely anything in the studio had been changed. The charcoal caricatures on the walls were as sacred in Winifred's eyes as if they had been frescoes by old Italian masters, and she had issued strict injunctions to spring-cleaners to leave them intact. Even Clytie's easel was there now. Kent lived for these afternoons. One day Kent was going to dine with Wither and Fairfax. As his road to a certain point was the same as Clytie's, they walked along together. This was almost the first occasion on which they were quite alone together. He reminded her casually of the fact. “Yes,” she replied. “And I have been wanting to see you by yourself. I have not thanked you for your letter. But you do see that I appreciate it, don't you?” “There is nothing to thank me for, since I pleased myself in writing it. The thanks are from me to you for treating it as you have done.”