On a third call Hilda appeared, but only as he was on the point of going. She wore the same black dress, and the same look of unnatural pallor. "Hilda," said Odd, for amid these unfamiliar conditions he still used the familiar appellation, "I must see the cause of all this." "Of what?" Her smile was certainly the sweet smile he remembered. "Of this unearthly devotion; these white cheeks." "Hilda is naturally pale," put in Mrs Archinard; "she has my skin. But, of course, now she is a ghost." "Well, I want to see the haunted studio. I want to see the masterpieces." Odd spoke with a touch of gentle irony that did not seem to offend Hilda. "You will see nothing either uncanny or unusual." "Well, at all events, when can I come to see you in your studio?" The vague look crossed Hilda's smile. "You see--I work very hard;" she hesitated, seemed even to cast a beseeching glance at Katherine, standing near. Katherine was watching her. "She is getting ready her pictures for the Champs de Mars. But, Hilda, Mr. Odd may come some morning." "Oh yes. Some morning. I thought you always bicycled in the morning. I wish you _would_ come, it would be so nice to see you there!" she spoke with a gay and sudden warmth; "only you must tell me when to expect you. My studio must be looking nicely and my model presentable." "I will take Mr. Odd to-morrow," said Katherine, "he would never find his way." "Thanks, that will be very jolly," said Odd, conscious that an unescorted visit would have been more so, yet wondering whether Hilda alone might not be more disconcerting than Hilda aided and abetted by her sister. So the next morning he called for Katherine, and they walked to a veritable nest of _ateliers_ near the Place des Ternes, where they climbed interminable stairs to the very highest studio of all, and here, in very bare and business-like surroundings, they found Hilda. She left her easel to open the door to them. A red-haired woman was lying on a sofa in a far, dim corner, a vase of white flowers at her head. There was a big linen apron of butcher's blue over the black dress, and Hilda looked very neat, less pallid, too, than Odd had seen her look as yet. Her skin had blue shadows under the chin and nose, and a blue shadow made a mystery beneath the long sweep of her eyebrows and about her beautiful eyes. But when she turned her head to the light, Odd saw that the lips were red and the cheeks freshly and faintly tinted. He was surprised by the picture on the big easel; the teapot had not prepared him for it. A rather small picture, the figure flung to its graceful, lazy length, only a fourth life-size. It was a picture of elusive shadows, touched with warmer lights in its grays and greens. The woman's half-hidden face was exquisite in color. The sweep of her pale gown, half lost in demi-tint, lay over her like the folded wings of a tired moth. The white flowers stood like dreams in the dreamy atmosphere.