The studio was all golden with the sun, now, and the brilliant rays bathed them as she laid her gloved hand in his and his arm encircled her waist. She was a wonderful dancer; her supple grace and professional perfection enchanted him. From time to time he left her to crank up the music-box; neither of them tired. Occasionally she glanced at her jewelled wrist-watch and ventured to voice her doubts as to the propriety of continuing in the imminence of Miss Davis’s return. "Then let’s come up to my studio," he said. "I’ve a music-phone of sorts. We can dance there until you’re tired, and then you can come down and see Miss Davis." She demurred: the music-box ran down with a squawk. "Shall we take one more chance here?" he asked. "No, it’s too risky.... Shall I run up to your place for just one little dance?" "Come on!" he said, taking her hand. They went out and he closed the door. Then, hand-in-hand, laughing like a pair of children, they sped up the stairs and arrived breathless before his door, which he unlocked. And in another minute they were dancing again while a scratched record croaked out a fox-trot. "I _must_ go," she said, resting one gloved hand on his arm. "I’d love to stay but I mustn’t." "First," he said, "we’ll have tea." "No!" But presently they were seated on his desk, a plate of sweet biscuits between them, their glasses of sherry touching. "Unknown but fascinating girl," he said gaily, "I drink to your health and fortune. Never shall I forget our dance together; never shall I forget the charming stranger who took tea with me!" "Nor shall I forget you!—you very nice boy," she said, looking at him with smiling intentness. "Would it spoil if we saw each other again?" "You know that such delightful encounters never bear repetition," she answered. "Now I’m going. Farewell!" She laughed at him, touched her glass with her lips, set it aside, and slipped to the floor. "Good-bye!" she said. He caught her at the door, and she turned and looked up gravely. "Don’t spoil it," she whispered, disengaging herself. So he released her, and she stretched out her hand, smiled at him, and stepped out. The music-phone continued to play gaily. A girl who was coming upstairs saw her as she left Cleland’s studio; and, as the pretty visitor sped lightly past her, the girl who was mounting turned and watched her. Then she resumed her ascent, came slowly to Cleland’s open door, stood there resting a moment as though out of breath. Cleland, replacing the rugs, glanced up and caught sight of Stephanie; and the quick blood burnt his face. She came in as though still a trifle weary from the ascent. Neither spoke. She glanced down at the two empty wine glasses on his desk, saw the decanter, the biscuits and cigarettes. The music-phone was expiring raucously. "Who is that girl?" she asked in an even, colourless voice. "A girl I met." "Do you mind telling me her name?" "I—don’t know it," he said, getting redder.