most attractive part of the room. It was partly shut off by a carved screen, and had cushioned chairs of green wicker, and a table with a tea- service, and a low pedestal with a vase of flowers. The flowers were fading. Bought, like the lilacs, in the city streets, they had lasted but a day. Teresa frowned as she noticed their faint, sickly odour, and rose to set them away. She had rolled up the sleeves of her thin, white blouse, but had not taken off her hat. Her head drooped as she took up her work again, and she sighed, and paused to look at herself in a mirror. Under the shadow of the black hat her eyes looked back at her with a strange melancholy and uneasiness. After a moment her face looked to her like that of a stranger, some woman oppressed and sad, and this impression frightened her. She turned away abruptly, and began with a little tool to model the faun's thick neck and shaggy shoulder. He seemed a trivial creature, as she handled him; Basil's cartoon, reflected in the mirror, appeared to her meaningless and absurd. The air of the studio, of the building, of the whole city, seemed stale and oppressive. She thought of the woods, of the sea, and a desire to go far away, away from Basil, from everything, came upon her. She was tired, and a thought, a fear, a possibility, lay heavy on her heart. It had come to her in the night, and she had not slept.
There was a knock at the door. Teresa called,
