"In Nick Dormer's studio? What was she doing there?"
"She was sprawling over the room and staring at me."
If Mrs. Dallow had wished to "draw" her brother it is probable that at this point she suspected she had succeeded, in spite of the care he took to divest his tone of everything like emotion in uttering the words: "Why, does he know her so well? I didn't know."
"She's sitting to him for her portrait; at least she was then."
"Oh, yes, I remember: I put him up to that. I'm greatly interested. Is the portrait good?"
"I haven't the least idea—I didn't look at it. I dare say it's clever," Julia added.
"How in the world does Nick find time to paint?"
"I don't know. That horrid man brought her."
"What horrid man?" Peter demanded.
"The one Nick thinks so clever—the vulgar little man who was at your place that day and tried to talk to me. I remember he abused theatrical people to me—as if I cared anything about them. But he has apparently something to do with this girl."
"Oh, I recollect him—I had a discussion with him," Peter said.
"How could you? I must go and dress," Julia went on.
"He was clever, remarkably. Miss Rooth and her mother were old friends of his, and he was the first person to speak of them to me."
"What a distinction! I thought him disgusting!" exclaimed Mrs. Dallow, who was pressed for time and who had now got up.
