"I can't stand this much longer, if the weather keeps fine," he said. "It's waste--sheer waste. And those shoals of old women on Saturday afternoons are becoming intolerable. I must break it off somehow. The best I could do would be to shut up and be off to Pont-aven, or somewhere where one hasn't a hundred and fifty interruptions. It would be a good thing for Jack, who might find fewer excuses to be idle, and it would stop having to provide models for young women who set up studios when they ought to be drawing straight strokes. I know the sort of thing--exactly. And unless I look out, Mary Marchmont will be making elaborate arrangements that I should go and correct her drawings. May the fates avert that! I'll provide this one model, and there my engagements begin and end." CHAPTER TWO. STUDIO NUMBER TWO. That was a rash boast, with which Everitt concluded his meditations under the trees, but no misgivings disturbed him as he went back to the studio, set a few things in order, gave some directions to the porter, and departed. He dined out and went to the play, and passed the next day without a thought of Miss Kitty Lascelles, until towards evening he met Mr and Mrs Marchmont near Albert Gate. As they parted, Mrs Marchmont reminded him of his promise. "If you are faithless," she said, "I will never forgive you. I saw Kitty this morning, and she told me that a ruffian was exactly what she wanted." "Well, she'll have him," said Everitt, grimly. "Why hurl threats at me? I am not likely to forget. But you are, apparently, as much interested as she is. May I ask why?" "Because," she said, "she is my dearest friend, and I don't like my friends to be disappointed. And she is so enthusiastic and eager about her art! I do wish I could bring you two together. Won't you come and dine? George, persuade him." "When I come back from Pont-aven," said Everitt, escaping with a laugh. He was an early worker, and it was his custom to be in his studio, painting, a good hour before Jack Hibbert began his studies. He made an effective picture himself as he stood at his easel--a handsome man, rather above the usual height, dark and bright-eyed, with a clear olive skin, and well-cut features. The lofty studio, with its hangings of faded harmonious colours, its pleasant irregularities, and its pictures standing about, formed an excellent setting. A fire burnt on the hearth, and the parrot was engaged in making pertinent inquiries of his master, which Everitt answered absently, for he was at work upon a subject which interested him. At last he looked at his watch with an exclamation of annoyance. "Where's that fellow? He should have been here half an hour ago." He pulled a bell impatiently, and it was answered by the porter. "Has Giuseppe come?" "No, sir." "Hurry him up when he makes his appearance--that's all. Or--stop! Is Greggs engaged this week?" "Yes, sir." "Foster--where's Foster?" "Mr Sydney has him."