Woodville let himself in with the key, and sat down, in deep despondency, in front of his easel. On it was a second copy of a copy that some one had found him doing at the National Gallery of the great Leonardo. It was not good, and it made him sick to look at it. The studio was a battered little barn in the depths of Chelsea, with the usual dull scent of stale paint and staler tobacco, and very little else; it was quite devoid of the ordinary artistic trappings. From the window shrill cries were heard from the ragged children, who fought and played in the gutter of a sordid street. Woodville had come here to think. He knew how shocked and distressed Sylvia had been when he had ventured to say that he thought he saw something in the Athenian scheme. He smiled with a slight reaction of gaiety at his surroundings, and wondered, for the hundredth time, why that extraordinary old American lady at the National Gallery had actually ordered from him the second copy of his picture. How marvellously bad it was! An unusual noise in the street--that of a hansom cab rattling up to the door--startled him. He went to the window, with a strange feeling at his heart. It was impossible that it could be Sylvia; she did not even know the address. It was Sylvia, in pale grey, gracefully paying the cabman while dirty children collected round her feet. He saw through the window that she smiled at them, and gave them a bunch of violets and some money, for which they fought. Horrified, he almost fell down the stairs and opened the door. There was no one else in the house. She followed him up to the studio, looking pale, but smiling bravely. He closed the door and leant against it. He was panting. "_What--on--earth_," he said, "do you mean by this madness?" Sylvia, seeing he was angry, took the hatpin out of her hat, and looked round for a place to sit down and quarrel comfortably. There was no seat, except a thing that had once been red and once a sofa, but was now a skeleton, and looked so cold and bare that she instinctively took off her chinchilla fur cloak and covered it up. Then she said-- "_Because--I--chose!_ I never can get a word with you at home, and I have a perfect right to come and talk to my future husband on a subject that concerns my whole happiness." She had invented this speech coming along, being prepared for his anger. "But what would people----" "People! People! You live for people! Everything matters except me!" He resolved on calmness. "Sylvia, dear, since you _are_ here," he said quietly, "let us talk reasonably." He tried to sit next to her, but the sofa gave way, and he found himself kneeling by her side. They both laughed angrily. He got up and stood by the mantelpiece. "So you think it is _decent_ to accept money to leave the country to please my enemy?" said Sylvia. "Will you tell me a really better plan by which we can marry in a year on an assured income?" he asked patiently.