Nearly always, on leaving his house, he would go up Elm Park Gardens and turn to the right.  If he was not in the car he would never turn to the left.  Occasionally he had flown past the end of the Grove in the car; not once, however, had he entered the Grove.  He lived in Chelsea and she lived in Chelsea, but not the same Chelsea; his was not the Chelsea of the studios and the King’s Road.  They had existed close together, side by side, for years and years—­and she had been hidden from him.

As they walked towards the studio door she told him that ‘they’ had buried her father a week ago and that ‘they’ were living in the studio, and had already arranged to let the lower part of the house.  She had the air of assuming that he was aware of the main happenings in her life, only a little belated in the knowledge of her father’s death.  She was quite cheerful.  He pretended to himself to speculate as to the identity of her husband.  He would not ask:  “And who is your husband?”.  All the time he knew who her husband was:  it could be no other than one man.  She opened the studio door with a latchkey.  He was right.  At a table Mr. Prince was putting sheets of etching-paper to soak in a porcelain bath.

“Well!  Well!  Well!” exclaimed Mr. Prince warmly, not flustered, not a bit embarrassed, and not too demonstrative.  He came forward, delicately drying the tips of his fingers on a rag, and shook hands.  His hair was almost white, his thin, benevolent face amazingly lined; his voice had a constant little vibration.  Yet George could not believe that he was an old man.

“He only heard to-day about father, and he’s called at once,” said Marguerite.  “Isn’t it just like him?”

The last phrase surprised and thrilled George.  Did she mean it?  Her kind, calm, ingenuous face showed that obviously she meant it.

“It is,” said Mr. Prince seriously.  “Very good of you, old man.”

After some talk about Mr. Haim, and about old times, and about changes, during which Marguerite took off her matron’s coat and Mr. Prince gently hung it up for her, they all sat down near to one another and near the unlighted stove.  The studio seemed to be precisely as of old, except that it was very clean.  Marguerite, in a high-backed wicker-chair, began slowly to remove her hat, which she perched behind her on the chair.  Mr. Prince produced a tin of Gold Flake cigarettes.

“And so you’re living in the studio?” said George.

“We have the two rooms at the top of the house of course,” answered Mr. Prince, glancing at the staircase.  “I don’t know whether it’s quite the wisest thing, with all those stairs; you see how we’re fixed”—­he glanced at Marguerite—­“but we had a fine chance to let the house, and in these days it’s as well to be cautious.”

Marguerite smiled happily and patted her husband’s hand.

“Of course it’s the wisest thing,” she said.

“Why!  What’s the matter with these days?” George demanded.  “How’s the work?”