"There is a light in Frank Jermyn's window--the top one," she cried; "I suppose he is dressing. He told me he had an early dance in Harley Street. I wish _I_ were going to a dance." There was a look of mischief in Phyllis's eyes as she looked round at Lucy, who was buried in the proof-sheets from _The Woodcut_. "Phyllis, you are coughing terribly. Do come away from that draughty place," cried Gertrude, with real anxiety. "Oh, I'm all right, Gerty. Ah, there goes Master Frank. It is wet underfoot, and he has turned up his trousers, and his pumps are bulging from his coat-pocket. I wonder how many miles a week he walks on his way to dances?" "It is quite delightful to see a person with such an enjoyment of every phase of existence," said Gertrude, half to herself. "You poor, dear _blasee_ thing. It _is_ a pretty sight to see the young people enjoying themselves, as the little boy said in _Punch_, is it not? I wonder if Mr. Jermyn is going to walk all the way? Perhaps he will take the omnibus at the corner. He never 'soars higher than a 'bus,' as he expresses it." Wearying suddenly of the sport, Phyllis dropped the blind, and, coming over to Gertrude, knelt on the floor at her feet. "It is a little dull, ain't it, Gerty, to look at life from a top-floor window?" A curious pang went through Gertrude, as she tenderly stroked the nut-brown head. "You haven't heard our news," she said, irrelevantly. "There, read that." And taking Mr. Darrell's note from her pocket, she handed it to Phyllis. The latter read it through rather languidly. "Yes, I suppose it is a good thing to be employed by such a person," she remarked. "Sidney Darrell?--Didn't I tell you I met him last week at the Oakleys, the day I went to tea?" * * * * * The Sycamores was divided from the road by a high grey wall, beyond which stretched a neglected-looking garden of some size, and, on the March morning of which I write, this latter presented a singularly melancholy appearance. The house itself looked melancholy also, as houses will which are very little lived in, and appeared to consist almost entirely of a large studio, built out like a disproportionate wing from the main structure. Gertrude was led at once to the studio by a serious-looking manservant, who announced that his master would join her in a few minutes. The apartment in which Gertrude found herself was of vast size, and bore none of the signs of neglect and disuse which marked the house and garden. It was fitted up with all the chaotic splendour which distinguishes the studio of the modern fashionable artist; the spoils of many climes, fruits of many wanderings, being heaped, with more regard to picturesqueness than fitness, in every available nook.