Was it strange that already, as she dressed in Billy's studio, she knew that she would never dress in an artist's studio again, and made of her fastening of hooks and strings a grave little ceremonial?--(There! With that fastening yet another chapter was closed; oh, trust her, there should be no reopening of it!)--Or that she should have a little shiver, at the thought that he might not have come? Suppose he had knocked at the door, and Billy had cried: "Half-a-moment--slide, Louie--come in!" Suppose--but the tremor passed. She had always known he would come; she had known it just as she had known everything else about him. Again every fibre of her was joyous. She was here on the earth--she, Louie Causton, daughter of a pugilist and of a Scarisbrick, gardener, typist, artists' model, and all else she might ever be--that she might know all about this man. To have ever doubted it would have been not to deserve him. And here he was, in the same room with her--he, beyond the screen, she behind it--only the two of them, for Billy had gone down to the tap to wash his brushes. _Now_ what should she do? No, she would not go out and join him; not as she now was; not a skirt and blouse, after that fairness. Nor yet would she speak. Surely it was for him to speak now! She had been speaking to him, singing to him, all music to his eyes; there does come a point (she told herself) when the woman ceases to do everything; he must speak now. She knew he would speak. So she stood, upright, close to the screen, waiting. He did speak, and like smoke another flock of fancies fled for ever. They were the fancies in which she had tried to remember his voice. It came, henceforth unforgettable, pure rest after her strivings. He too seemed to be near the screen; only a screen between them; but the phrases that were breaking their long silence were merely automatic. He was saying something about seeing her presently; she heard him pronounce the word "Piccadilly," and the most familiar image of Piccadilly sprang up in her mind. "Swan and Edgar's," she was whispering back over the screen. "No, no." This came quickly, protestingly. "At half-past ten," she whispered. "Yes." Then the dialogue was at an end. Billy had returned. Some moments later she heard more words, a laugh, and the closing of a door. She realised that he had gone. Only then did she come out from behind the screen. Billy was wriggling into his overcoat and muttering something about being late. "Got to go and keep that chap's wife company," he said. "Regular little Philistine, she is; I suppose that's why I go; can't stand these blessed artists. I say, he'd no idea I'd a model, you know--sorry." "All right, Billy," said Louie demurely.... "Sorry!" So was not she! "And I say, I'm afraid I shall have to pay you next time. I'm cleaned out." "It doesn't matter. Send me a steak in as you go out; I'll have my dinner here."