In the oncoming twilight the brilliant shop fronts were vague with glitter and color. Above the glowering tower of an office building a blanched star twinkled among faded clouds. When they reached Dudley's doorstep Julia began to feel morally ill and to wonder why she had come. As Dudley watched her mount the long green-carpeted stairs before him he was suddenly afraid of her. They entered the studio. It was almost dark in the big room. The canvas that Dudley was working on stood out conspicuously in the translucent gloom that filtered through the skylight. He crossed the floor and furtively threw an old dressing gown over the painting. Julia found herself unable to speak. When she discerned the lounge she sat down weakly upon it. Dudley stumbled over the furniture. He wanted to evade the moment when he must find the lamp. "Take off your wrap, Julia. I can't find matches. I seem to have mislaid everything. I am a graceless host." His own voice sounded strange to him. When at last he struck a match, Julia said, "Don't!" and put her hands to her eyes. The flame, which, for an instant, had blindly illumined his face, went out. Dudley could not bring himself to move. The evening sky, dim with color, was visible through the windows behind him, and above the sombre roof of the factory that rose from the courtyard his figure was thrown into relief. Objects over which there seemed to brood a peculiar stillness loomed about the room. The tension was intolerable to them both. They were experiencing the same nausea and disgust of their emotions--emotions which seemed inevitable for such a moment and so meaningless. Dudley said, "Where are you? I'm afraid of stumbling over you." Julia, a hysterical note in her voice, answered, "Here I am, Dudley." She knew that he was coming toward her. She wanted to die to escape the thing in herself which would yield to him. But at this instant the light flashed on and everything that she was feeling appeared to her as unjustifiable and ridiculous. To Dudley, Julia's body represented all the darkness of self-distrust and the coldness of his own worldly mind. He wished that her personality were more bizarre so that he might regard his past acts as mad rather than commonplace. He did not know why he had brought her to the studio and was ashamed to look at her. There was nothing for it but to admit the duality of his nature, and that half of it was weak. He longed to hasten the time of sailing when he would begin completely his life alone in which nothing but the artist in him would be permitted to survive. He said, "Is it too late for me to make you some tea? Let me take your wrap." When he approached her he averted his gaze.