Thurley wondered if she could make any sound at all—her voice seemed frozen. Supposing she did not meet Miss Clergy’s expectations? Supposing she were forced to return to Birge’s Corners or to stay in New York as a ribbon clerk, sharing another ribbon clerk’s hall bedroom? She began looking at the collection of autographed photographs which lined the walls, the marble statues, the bas reliefs, some paintings of an interesting, delicate sort in pastels and shadowy outlines which hung close beside the teakwood desk. Then the portrait of a striking, but not beautiful, woman claimed Thurley’s attention. The woman had a clever, quick face with flashing black eyes, almost as black as Dan’s, and blue-black hair, quite like Dan’s, combed into a huge knot at the nape of her thin, yet attractive, neck. She were a Grecian frock—two layers of white voile and a layer of black with a jet cord for a girdle. It was a merciless frock, Thurley decided, for it showed the woman’s bony, frail figure and unlovely, long arms with wonderfully _live_ hands and surprisingly stubby fingers. On the third finger of each hand was an antique ring, the glow of the jewels shining on the white lap of her frock. Something about the picture fascinated Thurley. She was wondering if this woman were not Bliss Hobart’s wife; if she did not find it a stupendous task to be as clever and as keen as her husband. Yet those well-modeled scarlet lips and the rather masculine chin told Thurley that the woman was equal to almost any task. By contrast, glancing in a side mirror, Thurley felt herself overdone and impossible. She longed to exit silently and drop down the nearest elevator shaft in peaceful oblivion. Before she had reached the studio she had felt sure of herself, scornful of criticism. Miss Clergy told her she looked a picture in her frock of white crêpe, embroidered with dull red, and a smart crimson sailor to match. But as she pulled off her gloves in nervousness she felt unfit, impossible, one mammoth gaucherie—her wilful brown hair would creep out in untidy strands and her face grow flushed in spite of the conventional coating of powder. She wondered what Dan Birge would say if he came into the studio of the “wisest and most cynical man in New York’s art world” and saw her! “Ah,” Hobart was saying, “we can go inside now—” Thurley started. Miss Clergy was sitting in blissful rapture in an easy chair by the window, her gray head nodding at Thurley in delight. Thurley wondered how long she had been standing spellbound. She had thought and felt so many strange things and emotions that the time she was sure must be great. “I won’t keep you out here,” Hobart was saying, just the suggestion of a blur in his pleasant voice. “Some one might stray in, and I’ve an appointment for lunch. Miss Clergy, please help yourself to something to read.”