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“Oh, it’s all right,” said the man addressed, good-humouredly. “I thought it was your fairy footfall before I heard the knock. What’s the trouble? Have you stuck the Messonnier painting on an envelope in mistake for a postage stamp and put it in the pillar-box? You’d better take a rest now, Tilly, while Mr. Oldfield disburdens his mind.”

The girl stretched herself in a lazy panther-like fashion, and taking a faded purple dressing-gown from the model stand flung it round herself.

“Studio number seven’s let,” said Dan.

“Well, why shouldn’t it be?” said Barnabas imperturbably. “It’s been vacant six months. It’s a pleasant studio; large, well-ventilated, drains in perfect condition, an ideal——”

“Oh, shut up, Barnabas,” said Dan. “It’s let to an old woman.”

“What?”

“An old woman,” repeated Dan bitterly.

For a moment Barnabas looked utterly taken aback. Then he shook his head.

“Bad news indeed, my child. For the last five years at least we’ve been a pleasant little coterie of seven undeniable geniuses all of the male sex. Then Ashton left us. Why on earth didn’t your friend Shottover take the place? I thought you said he was going to.”