"I _think_ it must have been that—and the general fascination he had for her—and his persistency and devotion. Really, I don’t know, myself, how she came to do it. She did it on one of her ill-considered, generous, headlong impulses. Ask her. All she ever told me was that she had married Oswald and didn’t know how it was going to turn out, but had decided to keep her own name for the present and continue to live with me." "Do they see each other—much?" he asked. "Oh, they encounter each other here and there as usual. He drops in here every day." "Does she go—there?" "I don’t know," said the girl gravely. He had set aside his tea, untasted. She, still curled up in her arm-chair, ate and drank with a delightfully healthy appetite. "Would you prefer a highball?" she enquired. "I could fix you one." "No, thank you." He rose and began to walk nervously about the studio. Her perplexed, brown eyes followed him. It was clear that she could not make him out. Natural chagrin at a clandestine marriage might account for his manner. Probably it was that, because Stephanie could not have meant anything more personal and serious to him, or he could not have remained away so long. He stopped abruptly in his aimless promenade and turned to Helen: "Am I in the way?" he asked. "My dear Mr. Cleland," she said, "we are a perfectly informal community. If you were in the way I’d say so. Also, I have a bed-room where I can retire when Steve comes in. Or you and she can go into her room to talk things over." She lighted another cigarette, rose, strolled over to the wax horse, with a friendly smile at him. "I was just making a sketch," she said. "I’ve a jolly commission—two bronze horses for the Hispano-Moresque Museum. The Cid is on one, Saladin on the other. I was just fussing with an idea when you rang." He came and stood beside her, looking at the sketch. "I’ve a fine, glass-roofed courtyard in the rear of the studio for my animal models—horses and dogs and any beast I require," she explained. "This sort of thing comes first, of course. I think I’ll get Oswald to pose for the Cid." She stood contemplating her sketch, the cigarette balanced between her fingers; then, of a sudden, she turned swiftly around to confront him. "Mr. Cleland, it _is_ a dreadful and foolish and irrational thing that Steve has done, and I know you are justly angry. But—she is a darling in spite of being a feather-head sometimes. You _will_ forgive her, won’t you?" "Of course. After all, it is her business." Helen sighed: "You _are_ angry. But please don’t lose interest in her. She’s so loyal to you. She adores you, Mr. Cleland——" A key rattled in the lock; the door swung open; into the dusky studio stepped a slender figure, charmingly buoyant and graceful in the fading light. "Helen, they’re to send our costumes in an hour. They are the most fascinating things——" Stephanie’s voice ceased abruptly. There was a silence.