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There were two figures in the studio, though to the eyes of mortals the place would have seemed empty. The one was in a robe of white and gold, the other in a dress of dull grey. The white-robed figure was sitting in a large chair near an oak chest, on which was a Sèvres bowl. She looked as if she had come to stay. There was an irresolute appearance about the grey-clad figure.

“I can’t stay in this studio with you here,” she said.

“I know,” said the white-robed figure.

“It is my prerogative to be here,” went on the grey-clad figure. “You don’t belong to age.”

The white-robed figure smiled.

“You sit there,” said the grey-clad figure, “as if the place belonged to you.”

“It will,” said the one in white.

“You will not be able to stay,” said the grey-clad figure warningly.

“I shall stay till I am asked to leave. Then you can take my place.”

“That will be soon,” said the grey-clad figure.

“We shall see,” said the figure in white.

“I shall come back again,” said the grey-clad figure, but the words lacked confidence.