"Well!" snapped the damsel waxing impatient in her turn, "wot of that? The Art School aint hout, is it? You can go up if yer want to." The permission was not very gracious but St. John accepted it nevertheless, and striding past her into the narrow passage began the ascent. He had not mounted two stairs however, before the slipshod Isobel called him back, and he noticed with surprise that her manner was altogether different, her tone softer, and in the obscurity of the dingy passage she looked less dirty and untidy. "Ere's the key," she said, holding it towards him. He advanced his hand but immediately her own was withdrawn and thrust behind her. "Wouldn't yer like to git it?" she said. He mildly answered that he would and stood waiting expectantly, but she made no move unless a facial contortion could come under such heading. "Then take if," she returned with arch playfulness, and a broad grin, but still she kept her hand behind her and stared up in his face with impudent meaning, and a leer that was evidently intended to be captivating. He understood her perfectly but his mood did not fit in with hers; to do Mr St. John bare justice he was rather above that sort of thing, and he remained stationary with one hand grasping the greasy banister, and one foot on the lowest stair. The girl gave it up then, and with another grimace, and a little scornful giggle approached him with the key held at arm's length between a grimy finger and thumb. "'Ere greeny," she said, then laughed again as he took it from her with a word of thanks and turned to go upstairs, "I don't wonder Miss Herskine went out," she said. But St. John went on feigning not to hear though a flush of annoyance dyed his cheek, and he had rather the appearance of a man who with difficulty restrained a swear.