He isn't here. Come in, dear; I am sure he will be pleased to see you--we will wait. MRS. SYLVESTER. _My_ husband hates to be disturbed in his studio. He says he can never work again all day. MRS. TEMPENNY. Artists are so different; Mr. Sylvester is more highly strung than Rembrandt, I sometimes think. Rembrandt likes to see his friends in his studio. I wonder where he has gone. MRS. SYLVESTER. Gone to have a drink, I daresay. MRS. TEMPENNY. Adelaide! MRS. SYLVESTER. He does drink, doesn't he--when he's thirsty anyhow? And artists are so often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear. MRS. TEMPENNY. Why that sigh? MRS. SYLVESTER (_sighing again_). Heigh ho! MRS. TEMPENNY (_affectionately_). Adelaide? MRS. SYLVESTER. Eugenia! (_They touch each other's hands sympathetically_.) MRS. TEMPENNY. Aren't you happy, Adelaide? MRS. SYLVESTER. I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn't say as much to anybody else, but we were girls at school together. MRS. TEMPENNY. But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist. MRS. SYLVESTER. I mean I would not say to anybody else that I am not entirely happy. MRS. TEMPENNY (_enthusiastically_). Do tell me all about it. MRS. SYLVESTER. I am jealous. MRS. TEMPENNY. Of whom? MRS. SYLVESTER. Oh no one--of everybody; of my husband's past, which I know--of his life to-day, which is too circumspect to be sincere. MRS. TEMPENNY (_with misgiving_). But--but Rembrandt's life is also circumspect. MRS. SYLVESTER. Poor child. MRS. TEMPENNY. You pity me? MRS. SYLVESTER. Horribly. To be married to a painter--what a fate! To have a husband who is shut up alone all day with a creature who--who wears-- MRS. TEMPENNY. Rembrandt's models _do_--. MRS. SYLVESTER. Wear--? MRS. TEMPENNY. Plenty! MRS. SYLVESTER (_gloomily_). Clothes sometimes cover a multitude of sins. They are no guarantee. Rosaline wore them! MRS. TEMPENNY. Rosaline? MRS. SYLVESTER. You have not heard of Rosaline? MRS. TEMPENNY. No. A model? MRS. SYLVESTER. A serpent! MRS. TEMPENNY. The wretch. Pretty of course? MRS. SYLVESTER. Serpents are always pretty. One day, not long after we were married, I came across her photograph--I was tidying up an old desk of Charles', a photo, my dear, with an inscription that left no doubt what their relations had been. I tore it up before his face; and for a time, excepting for the girlish illusions he had shattered, that was an end of the matter. MRS. TEMPENNY. But only for a time? MRS. SYLVESTER (_impressively_). Two years ago I went into his studio, and found her there. MRS. TEMPENNY. Horrible. MRS. SYLVESTER.