She took off her heavy coat and then set about preparing the tea things, and as she busied herself with them, thought over the events of the afternoon. She was certain that West was to be caught only by making him feel that he was pursuer, not pursued; by no art of coquetry on her part, but by a show of absolute indifference to him, which would lure him to win her out of pride if not for love. Once she could rouse his interest in her, she was confident the game would be in her own hands. She was pleased at the way in which she had made the most of West’s innocent speech, and made up her mind that merely pleasant friendliness must be her attitude toward him, until he sought to make her change it, and even then he must find anything further difficult to gain. West was in the studio when she carried in the tray, and insisted on taking it from her, while Maddison drew up a table to the fireside. Cakes were set close to the blazing fire to keep hot. Maddison drew the curtains and struck a match. “Don’t light the lamps yet, George,” said Marian, “unless you and Mr. West dislike blindman’s holiday. Stir up the fire and make a big blaze and we’ll have tea by firelight; it’s much more cozy—and artistic too, so there!” The rough cottage fireplace, with old-fashioned blue tiles and broad grate; the rich blaze; the dark background of the studio; Marian, her red-gold hair gloriously lit by the dancing flames, graceful, lithe; Maddison, with his dusky, refined face and his midnight eyes; West, long, lank, angular, with his shock of dark hair and his eyes of deep blue: the man of art, the man of the world, and the woman; each man wishing that the other were absent. “Now, Mr. West, open the door,” said Marian, after tea, as she put the cups and saucers together on the tray. “Please open the door—I’m off to wash up. I always wash up the tea things, because it secures a lecture from Mrs. Witchout in the morning, which is always delightful. You and George can talk high art and smoke.” Maddison lit a pipe, while West contented himself with a cigarette. “When you told me about yourself and Mrs. Squire, I naturally thought you’d made a fool of yourself or been made a fool of, Maddison,” West said, as he prowled about; “but you’re a lucky devil. She’s a clever, interesting woman. No wonder she couldn’t stick to the curate—I wonder how she ever came to marry him. Hullo! Here’s ‘The Rebel.’ Can’t see by this jumpy light—is it finished?” “Yes—as far as _I_ can finish it.” “If you can’t, who can? Anything else on hand beside the portrait of the missis?” “No.”