less by eye and manner and undue hauntings of his footsteps when in London. He could not truthfully tell himself that he was glad of her unexpected visit. For quite half a minute they stood staring at one another, and Miss Greeby's hard cheeks flamed to a poppy red at the sight of the man she loved.
"Well, Hermit." she observed, when he made no remark. "As the mountain would not come to Mahomet, the prophet has come to the mountain."
"The mountain is welcome," said Lambert diplomatically, and stood aside, so that she might enter. Then adopting the bluff and breezy, rough-and-ready-man-to-man attitude, which Miss Greeby liked to see in her friends, he added: "Come in, old girl! It's a pal come to see a pal, isn't it?"
"Rather," assented Miss Greeby, although, woman-like, she was not entirely pleased with this unromantic welcome. "We played as brats together, didn't we?
"Yes," she added meditatively, when following Lambert into his studio, "I think we are as chummy as a man and woman well can be."
"True enough. You were always a good sort, Clara. How well you are looking – more of a man than ever."
"Oh, stop that!" said Miss Greeby roughly.
"Why?" Lambert raised his eyebrows. "As a girl you always liked to be thought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a boy."
"I find that I am a woman, after all," sighed the visitor, dropping into a chair and looking round; "with a woman's feelings, too."
"And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to pay me a visit in the wilds," remarked the artist imperturbably.
"What are you doing in the wilds?"
"Painting," was the laconic retort.
"So I see. Still-life pictures?"
"Not exactly." He pointed toward the easel. "Behold and approve."
Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because she was a woman and in love. It was only a pictured head she saw, but the head was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from the canvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness. The raven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders – for the bust of the model was slightly indicated – and there, bunched out into curls. A red and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and dangling sequins added to its barbaric appearance. Nose and lips and eyes, and contours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face were idealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty. It was a gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild, untamed look which suggested unrestricted roamings and the spacious freedom of the road.
The sudden, jealous fear which surged into Miss Greeby's heart climbed to her throat and choked her speech. But she had wisdom enough to check unwise words, and glanced round the studio to recover her composure. The room was small and barely furnished; a couch, two deep arm-chairs, and a small table filled its limited area. The walls and roof were painted a pale green, and a carpet of the same delicate hue covered the floor. Of course, there were the usual painting materials, brushes and easel and palettes and tubes of color, together with a slightly raised platform near the one window where the model could sit or stand. The window itself had no curtains and was filled with plain glass, affording plenty of light.
"The other windows of the cottage are latticed," said Lambert, seeing his visitor's eyes wander in that direction. "I had that glass put in when I came here a month ago. No light can filter through lattices – in sufficient quantity that is – to see the true tones of the colors."
"Oh, bother the window!" muttered Miss Greeby restlessly, for she had not yet gained command of her emotions.
Lambert laughed and looked at his picture with his head on one side, and a very handsome head it was, as Miss Greeby thought. "It bothered me until I had it put right, I assure you. But you don't seem pleased with my crib."
"It's not good enough for you."
"Since when have I been a sybarite, Clara?"
"I mean you ought to think of your position."
"It's too unpleasant to think about," rejoined Lambert, throwing himself on the couch and producing his pipe. "May I smoke?"
"Yes, and if you have any decent cigarettes I'll join you. Thanks!" She deftly caught the silver case he threw her. "But your position?"
"Five hundred a year and no occupation, since I have been brought up to neither trade nor profession," said Lambert leisurely. "Well?"
"You are the heir to a title and to a large property."
"Which is heavily mortgaged. As to the title" – Lambert shrugged his shoulders – "Garvington's wife may have children."
"I don't think so. They have been married ten years and more. You are certain to come in for everything."
"Everything consists of nothing," said the artist coolly.
"Well," drawled Miss Greeby, puffing luxuriously at her cigarette, which was Turkish and soothing, "nothing may turn into something when these mortgages are cleared off."
"Who is going to clear them off?"
"Sir Hubert Pine."
Lambert's brows contracted, as she knew they would when this name was mentioned, and he carefully attended to filling his pipe so as to avoid meeting her hard, inquisitive eyes. "Pine is a man of business, and if he pays off the mortgages he will take over the property as security. I don't see that Garvington will be any the better off in that case."
"Lambert," said Miss Greeby very decidedly, and determined to know precisely what he felt like, "Garvington only allowed his sister to marry Sir Hubert because he was rich. I don't know for certain, of course, but I should think it probable that he made an arrangement with Pine to have things put straight because of the marriage."
"Possible and probable," said the artist shortly, and wincing; "but old friend as you are, Clara, I don't see the necessity of talking about business which does not concern me. Speak to Garvington."
"Agnes concerns you."
"How objectionably direct you are," exclaimed Lambert in a vexed tone. "And how utterly wrong. Agnes does not concern me in the least. I loved her, but as she chose to marry Pine, why there's no more to be said."
"If there was nothing more to be said," observed Miss Greeby shrewdly, "you would not be burying yourself here."
"Why not? I am fond of nature and art, and my income is not enough to permit my living decently in London. I had to leave the army because I was so poor. Garvington has given me this cottage rent free, so I'm jolly enough with my painting and with Mrs. Tribb as housekeeper and cook. She's a perfect dream of a cook," ended Lambert thoughtfully.
Miss Greeby shook her red head. "You can't deceive me."
"Who wants to, anyhow?" demanded the man, unconsciously American.
"You do. You wish to make out that you prefer to camp here instead of admitting that you would like to be at The Manor because Agnes – "
Lambert jumped up crossly. "Oh, leave Agnes out of the question. She is Pine's wife, so that settles things. It's no use crying for the moon, and – "
"Then you still wish for the moon," interpolated the woman quickly.
