When this was accomplished his mind became somewhat easier and he set out for the studio. He got on fairly well with himself--until he stood face to face with the big artist. Wade regarded him inscrutably: Peter regarded Wade with an expression which, in a woman, would have betokened an impending fit of hysteria. “You don’t remember me, Mr. Wade?” said he. “I remember you perfectly,” Roger replied. “I--I called on a matter of--that is, not exactly of--well--a matter.” “Will you come in?” said Roger, standing aside. “Thank you--I’ll be glad to,” was Peter’s eager reply. Within, his eyes made for a covered canvas on an easel in the middle of the big room. “Is that by any chance Mr. Richmond’s picture?” asked he. “Mr. Richmond’s picture?” said Roger. “I know nothing of any picture of Mr. Richmond.” “_For_ Mr. Richmond.” “Neither of nor for.” “I beg your pardon,” stammered Peter. “I rather hoped you’d let me have a look at it. You know, I was engaged to Miss Richmond.” Roger continued in his waiting attitude. Peter felt himself dwindling before this large, dark calm. He shifted uneasily from leg to leg, opened and shut his mouth several times, finally burst out: “I say, what an ass you must think me.” And he gave Roger an honest, pathetic look of appeal--an ingenuous plea for mercy. The large, dark calm was rippled by a smile--a very human smile. It made young Peter instantly feel that he was talking with a young human being just like himself. “I did want to look at the picture,” said he. “You know the one I mean--the picture of _her_.” Roger’s gaze wavered a little, steadied. “I’m sorry--but it’s not finished,” said he. “Oh--I see. And, naturally, you do not want anybody to look at it. Well--I’ll come another time--if I may.” Roger bowed. Peter was desperate. He puffed furiously at his cigarette, finally burst out: “Did you know that Miss Richmond and her father had quarreled?” “Really?” said Roger politely, and so far as Peter could judge the news interested him only to the degree more discouraging than no interest at all. “Yes--they’ve quarreled--and she’s left home--is living alone at a hotel in New York--says she’s never going back.” Peter was not sure, but he thought he saw a something or other flash across the artist’s face, like a huge, swift-swimming fish near the surface of opaque water. He felt encouraged to go on. “I think I ought to tell you. Miss Richmond and I _were_ engaged. It’s been broken off. Her father is furious. She’s in love with another man.” Peter glanced at Roger’s inscrutable eyes, blushed, glanced down again. “She has sacrificed everything for this other man. It’s really stunning, the way she did it--and a lot more I can’t tell you. And I do believe she’ll stick--will not go back--though she’s got next to nothing. You know her--know what a fine girl she is.” “Yes, indeed,” said Roger cordially.