"Mrs. Staines has been and gone," said Gertrude. "She worried dreadfully. But what have you done with 'number three?'" "Oh, I left the camera at York Place. I am going again to-morrow to do some work for Mr. Oakley, who shares Mr. Jermyn's studio." "Grist for our mill with a vengeance. But come here and talk seriously, Lucy." Phyllis, be it observed, who never remained long in the workshop, had gone out for a walk with Fan. "Well?" said Lucy, balancing herself against a five-barred gate, Fred Devonshire's latest gift, aptly christened by Phyllis the White Elephant. "Well, Miss Lorimer?" "I'm going to say something unpleasant. Do you realise that this latest development of our business is likely to excite remark?" "'That people will talk,' as Fan says? Oh, yes, I realise that." "Don't look so contemptuous, Lucy. It is unconventional, you know." "Of course it is; and so are we. It is a little late in the day to quarrel with our bread-and-butter on that ground." "It is a mere matter of convention, is it not?" cried Gertrude, more anxious to persuade herself than her sister. "Whether a man walks into your studio and introduces himself, or whether your hostess introduces him at a party, it comes to much the same thing. In both cases you must use your judgment about him." "And whether he walks down the street with you, or puts his arm round your waist, and waltzes off with you to some distant conservatory, makes very little difference. In either case the chances are one knows nothing about him. I am sure half the men one met at dances might have been haberdashers or professional thieves for all their hostesses knew. And, as a matter of fact, we happen to know something about Mr. Jermyn." "Oh, I have nothing to say against Mr. Jermyn, personally. I am sure he is nice. It was rather that my vivid imagination saw vistas of studio-work looming in the distance. It was quite different with Mr. Lawrence, you know," said Gertrude, whom her own arguments struck as plausible rather than sound. "One thing may lead to another." "Yes, it is sure to," cried Lucy, who saw an opportunity for escaping from the detested propriety topic. "To-day, for instance, with Mr. Oakley. He is middle-aged, by the bye, Gerty, and married, for I saw his wife." They both laughed; they could, indeed, afford to laugh, for, regarded from a financial point of view, the morning had been an unusually satisfactory one.