“Queer little house this, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Franks as she sat down to table.  “Everything is sacrificed to the studio; there’s no room to turn anywhere else.  We must look at once for more comfortable quarters.”

“It’s only meant for a man living alone,” said the artist, with a laugh.  Franks laughed frequently, whether what he said was amusing or not.  “Yes, we must find something roomier.

“A score of sitters waiting for you, I suppose?” said Warburton.

“Oh, several.  One of them such an awful phiz that I’m afraid of her.  If I make her presentable, it’ll be my greatest feat yet.  But the labourer is worthy of his hire, you know, and this bit of beauty-making will have its price.”

“You know how to interpret that, Mr. Warburton,” said Rosamund, with a discreetly confidential smile.  “Norbert asks very much less than any other portrait painter of his reputation would.”

“He’ll grow out of that bad habit,” Will replied.  His note was one of joviality, almost of bluffness.

“I’m not sure that I wish him to,” said the painter’s wife, her eyes straying as if in a sudden dreaminess.  “It’s a distinction nowadays not to care for money.  Norbert jokes about making an ugly woman beautiful,” she went on earnestly, “but what he will really do is to discover the very best aspect of the face, and so make something much more than an ordinary likeness.”

Franks fidgeted, his head bent over his plate.

“That’s the work of the great artist,” exclaimed Warburton, boldly flattering.

“Humbug!” growled Franks, but at once he laughed and glanced nervously at his wife.

Though this was Rosamund’s only direct utterance on the subject, Warburton discovered from the course of the conversation, that she wished to be known as her husband’s fervent admirer, that she took him with the utmost seriousness, and was resolved that everybody else should do so.  The “great artist” phrase gave her genuine pleasure; she rewarded Will with the kindest look of her beautiful eyes, and from that moment appeared to experience a relief, so that her talk flowed more naturally.  Luncheon over, they returned to the studio, where the men lit their pipes, while Rosamund, at her husband’s entreaty, exhibited the sketches she had brought home.

“Why didn’t you let me hear from you?” asked Warburton.  “I got nothing but that flimsy postcard from Venice.”

“Why, I was always meaning to write,” answered the artist.  “I know it was too bad.  But time goes so quickly—­”

“With you, no doubt.  But if you stood behind a counter all day—­”

Will saw the listeners exchange a startled glance, followed by an artificial smile.  There was an instant’s dead silence.

“Behind a counter—?” fell from Norbert, as if he failed to understand.

“The counter; my counter!” shouted Will blusterously.  “You know very well what I mean.  Your wife has told you all about it.”