The polished rug-laid floor, the fluted folds of toile-de-genes clothing the walls, the litter of sketches and pictures, casts and easels, the familiar lay-figure grotesquely attitudinising in a corner, above all the atmosphere carried him straight to Paris. It was the room of an artist, and a French artist. His eyes leaped to her. She was standing before a big easel looking wonderingly over her shoulder at the opening door, the brush she was using poised in her hand, her eyes wide with astonishment, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.
In the picturesque painter's blouse, her brown hair loosely framing her face, she seemed altogether different. He could not define wherein lay the change, he had no time to discriminate, he only knew that seen thus she was a thousand times more desirable than she had ever been and that his heart cried out for her more fiercely than before. He looked at her with hungry longing, then quickly--lest his eyes should betray him--from her to her model. A boy of ten with an intelligent small brown face, a mop of black curls, and red lips parted in a mischievous smile, he stood on the raised platform with the easy assurance of a professional.
Craven shut the door behind him and came forward. She turned to meet him and the colour rushed in a crimson wave to the roots of her hair. "Monsieur ... vous etes de retour ... mais, soyez le bienvenu!" she stammered, with surprise unconsciously lapsing into the language of childhood. Then she caught herself up with a little laugh of confusion and hurried on in English: "I am so sorry ... there is nobody in but me. Will you have some tea? It is only three o'clock," with a glance at her wrist, "but I expect you lunched early."
"I don't want any tea," he said bluntly. "I came to see you." He spoke in French, mindful of two sharp ears on the platform. The colour in her face deepened painfully and her eyes fell under his steady gaze. She moved slowly back to the easel.
"If you could wait a few moments----" she murmured.
"I don't want to interrupt," he said hastily. "Please finish your work. You don't mind if I stay? I haven't been here since I was a boy; you have changed the room incredibly. May I look round?"
She nodded assent over a tube of colour, and returned to her study.
Left to himself he wandered leisurely round the room, examining the pictures and sketches that were heaped indiscriminately. He had never before displayed any interest in her work, and was now amazed at what he saw. There was power in it that surprised him, that made him wonder what intuition had given the convent-bred girl the knowledge she exhibited. The tardy recognition of her talent strengthened his stranger feeling toward her. He went thoughtfully to the fireplace, and, from the rug, surveyed the room and its occupants. The atmosphere recalled old memories--he had studied in Paris after leaving Oxford--only one thing seemed lacking.