“I’ll try again!” Garstin had said. “You must give me time, my boy. You’re not in a hurry to leave London, are you?” And then Miss Van Tuyn had seen Arabian’s eyes turn to her as he had said, but rather doubtfully: “I don’t know whether I am.” Garstin’s eyes had said to her with sharp imperativeness: “Keep him! You’re not to let him go!” And she had kept her promise; she had gone away from the studio with Arabian leaving Garstin smiling at the door. And at that moment she had almost hated Garstin. Arabian had asked her to lunch with him. She had consented. He had suggested a cab, and the Savoy or the Carlton, or the Ritz if she preferred it. But she had quickly replied that she knew of a small restaurant close to Sloane Square Station where the food was very good. Many painters and writers went there. “But we are not painters and writers!” Arabian had said. Nevertheless they had gone there, and had lunched in a quiet corner, and she had left him about three o’clock. On the day of Craven’s call at Claridge’s she had been with Arabian again. Garstin had begun another picture, and had worked on through the lunch hour. Later they had had some food, a sort of picnic, in the studio, and then she had walked away with Arabian. She had just left him when she met Craven in the hall of the hotel. Garstin had not allowed either her or Arabian to look at what he had done. He had, Miss Van Tuyn thought, seemed unusually nervous and diffident about his work. She did not know how he had gone on, and was curious. But she was going to dine with him that night. Perhaps he would tell her then, or perhaps he had only asked her to dinner that she might tell him about Arabian. And in the midst of all this had come Craven with his changed manner and his news about Lady Sellingworth. Decidedly things were taking a turn for the better. To Miss Cronin’s increasingly plaintive inquiries as to when they would return to Paris Miss Van Tuyn gave evasive replies. She was held in London, and had almost forgotten her friends in Paris.