a happy if idiotic superstition everybody goes out of it, disconcerts and frightens you. It's the very time, it's the very place, to do a little work and possess one's soul."
This vehement allocution found Mrs. Dallow evidently somewhat unprepared; but she was sagacious enough, instead of attempting for the moment a general rejoinder, to seize on a single phrase and say: "Work? What work can you do in London at such a moment as this?"
Nick hesitated a little. "I might tell you that I wanted to get up a lot of subjects, to sit at home and read blue-books; but that wouldn't be quite what I mean."
"Do you mean you want to paint?"
"Yes, that's it, since you drag it out of me."
"Why do you make such a mystery about it? You're at perfect liberty," said Mrs. Dallow.
She extended her hand, to rest it on the mantel-shelf, but her companion took it on the way and held it in both his own. "You're delightful, Julia, when you speak in that tone—then I know why it is I love you; but I can't do anything if I go to Griffin, if I go to Severals."
"I see—I see," said Julia, reflectively and kindly.
"I've scarcely been inside of my studio for months and I feel quite homesick for it. The idea of putting in a few quiet days there has taken hold of me: I rather cling to it."
"It seems so odd, your having a studio!" Julia dropped, speaking so quickly that the words were almost incomprehensible.
"Doesn't it sound absurd, for all the good it does me, or I
