She liked the Lorimers, but feared them as companions for her daughter; there was no knowing on what wild freak they might lead Constance to embark. "But, Mrs. Devonshire," protested Gertrude, with great eagerness, "I am told that it is the right thing for people of the same trade to congregate together; they combine, as it were, to make a centre, which comes to be regarded as the emporium of their particular wares." Gertrude laughed at her own phrases, and Phyllis said: "Don't look so poetical over it all, Gerty! Your hat has found its way to the back of your head, and there is a general look of inspiration about you." She straightened the hat as she spoke, and put back the straggling wisps of hair. "There is no bath-room!" went on Conny, sternly. She had a love of practical details and small opportunity for indulging it, except with regard to her own costume; and now she proceeded to plunge into elaborate statements on the subject of hot water, and the practicability of having it brought up in cans. The end of it was that an expedition to Baker Street was organised for the next day; when the whole party drove across the park to that pleasant, if unfashionable, region, for the purpose of inspecting the hopeful premises. It was a chill, bright afternoon, and notwithstanding that it was the end of May, the girls wore their winter cloaks, and Mrs. Devonshire her furs. "What number did you say, Gertrude?" asked Phyllis, as the carriage turned into New Street, from Gloucester Place. "Twenty B." As they came into Baker Street, a young man, slim, high-coloured, dark-haired, darted out, with some impetuosity, from the post-office at the corner, and raised his hat as his eye fell on the approaching carriage. Constance bowed, colouring slightly. "Who is your friend, Conny?" said her mother. "Oh, a man I meet sometimes at dances. I believe his name is Jermyn. He dances rather well." Conny spoke with somewhat exaggerated indifference, and the colour on her cheek deepened perceptibly. "Here we are!" cried Phyllis. The carriage had drawn up before a small, but flourishing-looking shop, above which was painted in gold letters; _Maryon; Pharmaceutical Chemist_. "This is it." Gertrude spoke with curious intensity, and her heart beat fast as they dismounted and rang the bell. Mrs. Maryon, the chemist's wife, a thin, thoughtful-looking woman of middle-age, with a face at once melancholy and benevolent, opened the door to them herself, and conducted them over the apartments. They went up a short flight of stairs, then stopped before the opening of a narrow passage, adorned with Virginia cork and coloured glass. "We will look at the studio first, please," said Gertrude, and they all trooped down the little, sloping passage. "Reminds one forcibly of a summer-house at a tea-garden, doesn't it?" said Phyllis, turning her pretty head from side to side. They laughed, and the melancholy woman was seen to smile.