She continued to pinch off little lumps of waxy, pliable composition and stick them on the horse. Still fussing with the sketch, he saw a smile curve her cheek in profile; and presently she said without turning: "Why did you speak of Stephanie Quest as Mrs. Grismer? _We_ don’t, you know." "Why not? Isn’t she?" The girl looked at him over her shoulder; she was startlingly pretty, fresh and smooth-skinned as a child. "Who _are_ you?" she asked, with that same little hint of friendly curiosity in her brown eyes;—"I’m Helen Davis, Stephanie’s chum. You seem to know a good deal about her." "I’m James Cleland," he said quietly, "—her brother." At that the girl’s brown eyes flew wide open: "Good Heavens!" she said; "did Steve expect you? She never said a word to me! I thought you were a fixture in Europe!" He sat biting the end of his cigarette, not looking at her: "She didn’t expect me," he said, flinging the half-burned cigarette into the silver slop-dish of the tea service. "I didn’t notify her that I was coming." Helen Davis dropped one elbow on the modelling table, rested her rounded chin in her palm, and bent her eyes on Cleland. Smoke from the cigarette between her fingers mounted in a straight, thin band to the ceiling. "So you are Steve’s Jim," she mused aloud. "I recognize you now, from your photographs, only you’re older and thinner—and you wear a moustache.... You’ve been away a long while, haven’t you?" "Too long," he said, casting a sombre look at her. "Oh, do you feel that way? How odd it will seem to you to see Steve again. She’s such a darling! Quite wonderful, Mr. Cleland. The artists’ colony in New York raves over her." "Does it?" he said drily. "Everybody does. She’s so amusing, so clever, so full of talent and animation—like a beautiful and mischievous thoroughbred on tip-toes with vitality and the sheer joy of living. She never is in low spirits or depressed. That’s what fascinates everybody—her gaiety and energy and high spirits. I knew her in college and she wasn’t quite that way then. Perhaps because she hated college. But she could be a perfect little devil if she wanted to. She can be that still." Cleland nodded almost absently; his preoccupied gaze travelled over the disordered studio and concentrated scowlingly on the yellow cat. He kept twisting the head of his walking stick between his hands and staring at the animal in silence while Helen Davis watched him. Presently, and without any excuse, she walked slowly away and vanished into some inner room. When she returned, she had discarded her working smock, and her smooth hands were slightly rosy from a recent toilet. "I’m going to give you some tea," she said, striking a match and lighting the lamp under the kettle at his elbow. "Thanks, no," he said with an effort.