She sat so for a long time. Inkling had had a deep and peaceful sleep on the soft folds of her gown, from which he was startled by a knock at the door. His mistress sprang up suddenly, rolling him over, and he began to bark furiously, while Sonia, with an attitude of studious absorption, took her place at the easel, and seized her bit of charcoal. She thought it was probably only some boy on an errand, but she was also acutely conscious of whom it might possibly be. So she was not entirely unprepared for the sight of Harold appearing quickly around the edge of the old sail-cloth screen. He bowed with a brevity and formality which seemed to imply that she need fear no agitating disturbance from him; but instead of standing in his place and stating the reason of his presence, he came forward. Inkling, wild with excitement, began a repetition of his frantic performances of the former occasion; but his mistress, determined to have nothing of that sort, promptly suppressed him, and he slunk away and lay down with great meekness. Harold, seeming to take no cognizance of the dog, came nearer, and waited until the absorbed figure before the easel should notice him. Presently she did this by saying formally: “Martha is not here. She has not been here to-day.” “She is at home. I have just left her,” he answered. “Oh, I beg your pardon! I thought you had come to see her.” “No; I have come to see you.” “To see me?” lifting her eyebrows in light surprise. “If you are at leisure.” “I am busy, as you see; but I can talk to you as I draw, if you don’t mind.” “If you will allow me, I will wait until your drawing is done.” “That would take up too much of your time,” she said, laying down her charcoal, and elaborately brushing off her fingers with her handkerchief. “Not at all. I have nothing to do.” “I would rather speak to you first--whatever it is you have to say--and go on with my work afterward. I dislike to draw with people looking on.” “In that case I will ask you to give me your attention at once. Will you, perhaps take this seat?” He indicated an old wooden arm-chair; but she declined it with a quick motion, and went over and took her old place on the model-throne, lifting Inkling to her lap. Harold seated himself on a bench directly facing her. “I am sorry if I am annoying you,” he said; “but I cannot take the consequences of not speaking to you now.” “Consequences?” she said. “What consequences?” “Consequences to you and to me. I will ask you to be kind enough to look at me while I explain them.” Her eyes were fastened upon Inkling, and she kept them so, while she began to twist his soft ears. There was a moment of intense stillness throughout the room. Then the man, in a voice of deep concentration, spoke her name. “Sophie,” he said. “Pray don’t call me by that name,” she answered quickly. “I have never liked it, and I wish now to forget it.”