"The living face has no pictorial associations whatever," retorted his sister, with decision. "I shall remember in time. But go on with your work, Craig. I did not come to disturb you--merely to bring a piece of news which I'll tell you as soon as I get my breath." Atwood placed a chair and, returning to his easel, made a show of work which Jean's trained eye knew for his usual polite pretense with visitors who assumed themselves no hindrance; while Mrs. Van Ostade, throwing back her furs, relegated the model to the ranks of the inanimate studio properties, of which her leisured survey now took stock. "Those stairs!" she said again, pursuing her breath by the unique method of lavishing more. "Really, Craig, you couldn't have pitched on a more inconvenient rookery." "We thought it a miracle for the money once," he reminded. "I dare say I could find a more convenient workshop in one of the new office-buildings, but then I shouldn't have my open fire." "You could have it at the Copley Studios, and modern comforts, too." "Up there!" he scoffed. "I don't belong in the pink-tea circle, Julie." Mrs. Van Ostade refused to smile with him. "The location counts," she insisted. "With some people." "With the helpful people. I've thought it over carefully; I've used my eyes and ears. The studio unquestionably carries weight. It ought to be something more than a workshop, as you call it. It should have atmosphere. Even our friend down the street has achieved that. Barbaric as it is, MacGregor's studio has a distinct artistic unity." "Mac's place reflects his work. So does mine." "Yours! It's a jumble of everything, a junk-shop." "Of course it is," he laughed. "I've ransacked two-thirds of these treasures from the Ghetto. But even junk-shops have atmosphere--a musty one--and so, it logically follows, must my studio." She indulged his trifling with a divine patience. "Could you receive Mrs. Joyce-Reeves in such a place?" she queried sweetly. "Certainly; if any possible errand could bring that high and mighty personage over the door-sill." "There is a possible reason." Her tone drew him round. Jean, forgotten by both, discerned that he also attached a significance to the hypothetical visit. She was at a loss to account for this, Mrs. Joyce-Reeves's prominence in the social world of New York notwithstanding. "Is this your news, Julie?" he demanded. His sister savored his quickened interest a moment. "Part of it," she replied. "She saw your dry-point of me at Mrs. Quentin Van Ostade's the other day." "The dry-point!" he deprecated. "It was only an experiment." "So I told her. She asked if you do anything in the way of portraiture in oil, and of course I answered yes." "I say!" "Well, haven't you?" "Trash, yes; cart-loads of it." "Perhaps you call your portrait of Malcolm MacGregor trash? Mrs. Joyce-Reeves did not." "She saw it!"