That day he was angry with himself, was sick of his idle life. But he did not feel within him the strong certainty that he would be able to take his life in hand and transform it, which drives doubt and sorrow out of a man. He kept on saying, "I must!" But he did not say, "I shall!" The fact was that the mainspring was missing from the watch. Claude was living as if he loved, but he was not loving. At half-past seven he passed up the handsome steps and under the arch which led to his studio. The caretaker with gouty hands met him. This man had been a soldier, and still had a soldier's eyes, and a way of presenting himself, rather sternly and watchfully, to those arriving in "my building," as he called the house full of studios, which was military. But gout, and it is to be feared drink, had long ago made him physically flaccid, and mentally rather sulky and vague. He looked a wreck, and as if he guessed that he was a wreck. An artist on the first floor had labelled him, "The derelict looking for tips to the offing." "The lady's here, sir," he observed, on seeing Claude. "Is she?" "Been 'ere"--he sometimes dropped an aitch and sometimes did not--"this half hour." The fact apparently surprised him, almost indeed upset him. "This 'alf hour," he repeated, this time dropping the aitch to make a change. "Oh," said Claude, disdaining the explanation which seemed to be expected. He walked on, leaving the guardian to his gout. The studio was lit up, and directly Claude opened the door he smelt coffee and something else--sausages, he fancied. At once he guessed why Charmian had arranged to meet him at the studio, instead of going there with him. He shut the door slowly. Yes, certainly, sausages. "Charmian!" he called. She came out from behind the screen, dressed in a very plain, workmanlike black gown, over which she was wearing a large butcher blue apron. Her sleeves were turned up and her face was flushed. Claude thought she looked younger than she usually did. "What are you doing?" "Cooking the dinner," she replied, in a practical voice. "It will be ready in a minute. Take off your coat and sit down." She turned round and disappeared. Something behind the screen was hissing like a snake. Claude now saw a table laid in the middle of the studio. On a rough white cloth were plates, knives, and forks, large coffee cups with flowers coarsely painted on a gray ground with a faint tinge of blue in it, rolls of bread, butter, a cake richly brown in color. A vase of coarse, but effective pottery, full of scented wild geranium, stood in the midst. Claude took off hat and coat, hung them up on a hook, and glanced around. Certainly Charmian had arranged the furniture well, chosen it well, too. The place looked cosy, and everything was in excellent taste. There was comfort without luxury. Claude felt that he ought to be very grateful. "Coming!"