her hat and veil. "I know you work here sometimes—Mr. Ramsome showed me some of your work—I thought it extremely good. I wonder when I could come to sit again—I'm most anxious to get on with the portrait. Do you think Mr. Ransome would like me to come to-morrow?"
"I think he would."
"Well, then, would you tell him that I'll come at half-past three, unless I hear from him? Thank you. And I wonder—would you both come and dine with me one day this week? Do—let us say Thursday—at eight? I would come to see you before, but I shall be out in the country almost every day, looking after a house I'm building. Good-bye—till Thursday, then."
She put out her hand, but Teresa smilingly showed her own, moist from the clay. With a nod, Mrs. Perry rustled out of the studio. A perfume of iris lingered in the dead air.
Basil came back a few minutes later, grave and worried. He flung his hat down and shook his shoulders with a familiar impatient gesture. His mouth and jaw had settled into the dragging look of despondency, which showed the weight laid on his spirit.
"Well?" said Teresa sharply, wrapping up the clay faun again.
"Pneumonia. He was picked up somewhere and taken to the hospital four days ago. The
