Except for his bed, table and bureau, his chamber was empty now, all his effects having been sold at auction. The sum received barely sufficed to pay off his debts. The studio, too, was bare, and placards hung outside both doors indicating that the premises were to let. The little office, however, was left as usual, except for the casts of hands, put away in the closet, and in this room they stayed by the open fire. He was looking over his card catalogue as she entered. He had conceived the plan of writing a book on palmistry along new lines, in which he might embody his observations and theories. His aim was to attempt to correlate chirography, chiromancy, phrenology, physiognomy and all those sciences and pseudo-sciences which seek to interpret character through specialized individual characteristics, and to trace the evidences from one to another, showing how each element or indication would recur in every manifestation of a person’s individuality, and how one symptom might be inferred and corroborated by another. It would take time and trouble, but he could spend his leisure upon it. The plan was tentative and hypothetical, but so suggestive that he was becoming interested in proving its verification. Clytie was enthusiastic about the book and desirous of helping him. He was becoming less afraid of her, and more sure of himself, after their days together, and he greeted her boldly enough, now. Yet there was still a fascinating novelty in his possession of her that made his familiarity seem like recklessness. Not for her, however. Once having given him her lips she could never refuse them again, nor could she longer think the action strange. She took off her coat and hat, tucked in an errant curl or two over her ears and seated herself luxuriously in the arm-chair. As she had played with him, so now she worked with him, arranging his notes, dictating for him to write, or stopping to discuss the subject. She was too adorable in all this assumption of importance and seriousness for him not to interrupt her occupation more than once, for which diversion of her attention he was sent back promptly to his desk. The business kept them so employed for two hours, when she opened her package, brought forth their luncheon and brewed a pot of tea on the hearth. "Francis," she said, after that was over, "do you know we are actually becoming acquainted? Isn’t it too bad!" "Don’t you enjoy the process?" "Decidedly I do. That’s why I regret that it must soon be over." "I doubt if we’ll ever finish—if we do, it will be still more delightful to know you. And this process brings us toward that beautiful consummation." "Yes, but this part is so pleasant. I hate to see it go. I want to roll it over on my tongue. Now, every word you say is a revelation and a surprise—a surprise that I have been anticipating all my life, if you’ll pardon the bull. It’s like unwrapping a mummy—I get excitedly nearer and nearer my ideal of you."