It was a big bare barn of a place with its cold north light, for Rooke, sybarite as he was in other respects, treated his work from a Spartan standpoint which permitted necessities only in his studio. "Empty great barrack, isn't it?" he said to Nan. "But I can't bear to be crowded up with extraneous hangings and draperies like some fellows. It stifles me." She nodded sympathetically. "I know. I like an empty music-room." "You still work? Ah, that's good. You shall tell me about it--afterwards--when this crowd has gone. Oh, Nan, there'll be such a lot to say!" His glance held her a moment, and she flushed under it. Those queer eyes of his had lost none of their old magnetic power. He turned away with a short, amused laugh, and the next moment was listening courteously to an elderly duchess's gushing eulogy of his work. Nan remained quietly where she was, gazing at the big picture of the famous American beauty. It was a fine piece of work; the lights and shadows had been handled magnificently, and it was small wonder that the man who could produce such work had leaped into the foremost rank of portrait-painters. She felt very glad of his success, remembering how bitter he had been in former days over his failure to obtain recognition. She turned and, finding him beside her again, spoke her thought quite simply. "You've made good at last, Maryon. You've no grudge against the world now." He looked down at her oddly. "Haven't I? . . . Well, you should know," he replied. She gave a little impatient twist of her shoulders. He hadn't altered at all, it seemed; he still possessed his old faculty for implying so much more than was contained in the actual words he spoke. "Most people would be content with the success you've gained," she answered steadily. "Most people--yes. But to gain the gold and miss . . . the rainbow!--_A quoi bon_?" His voice vibrated. This sudden meeting with Nan was trying him hard. There had been two genuine things in the man's life--his love for Nan and his love of his art. He had thrust the first deliberately aside so that he might not be handicapped in the second, and now that the race was won and success assured he was face to face with the realisation of the price that must be paid. Nan was out of his reach for ever. Standing here at his side with all her old elusive charm--out of his reach! "What did you mean"--she was speaking to him again--"by telling Penny that you expected to see me soon--before she would?" "Ah, that's my news. Of course, when I wrote, I thought you were still down in Cornwall, with the Trenbys. I'd no idea you were coming up to town just now." "I'm up unexpectedly," murmured Nan. "Well? What then?" He smiled, as though enjoying his secret. "Isn't Burnham Court somewhere in your direction?" "Yes. It's about midway between the Hall and Mallow Court. It belonged to a Sir Robert Burnham who's just died. Why do you ask?"