Wingrave looked around him with expressionless face.  It was a tiny room, high up on the fifth floor of a block of flats, prettily but inexpensively furnished.  Juliet herself, tall and slim, with all the fire of youth and perfect health on her young face, was obviously contented.

“And your work?” he asked.

She made a little grimace.

“I have a good deal to unlearn,” she said, “but Mr. Pleydell is very kind and encouraging.”

“You will go down to Cornwall for the hot weather, I hope?” he said.  “London is unbearable in August.”

“The class are going for a sketching tour to Normandy,” she said, “and Mr. Pleydell thought that I might like to join them.  It is very inexpensive, and I should be able to go on with my work all the time.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“I hear,” he said, “that you have met Mr. Aynesworth again.”

“Wasn’t it delightful?” she exclaimed.  “He is quite an old friend of Mr. Pleydell.  I was so glad to see him.”

“I suppose,” he remarked, “you are a little lonely sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted.  “But I sha’n’t be when I get to know the girls in the class a little better.”

“I have some friends,” he said thoughtfully, “women, of course, who would come and see you with pleasure.  And yet,” he added, “I am not sure that you would not be better off without knowing them.”

“They are fashionable ladies, perhaps?” she said simply.

He nodded.

“They belong to the Juggernaut here which is called society.  They would probably try to draw you a little way into its meshes.  I think, yes, I am sure,” he added, looking at her, “that you are better off outside.”

“And I am quite sure of it,” she answered laughing.  “I haven’t the clothes or the time or the inclination for that sort of thing.  Besides, I am going to be much too happy ever to be lonely.”

“I myself,” he said, “am not an impressionable person.  But they tell me that most people, especially of your age, find London a terribly lonely place.”

“I can understand that,” she answered, “unless they really had something definite to do.  I have felt a little of that myself.  I think London frightens me a little.  It is so different from the country, and there is a great deal that is difficult to understand.”

“For instance?”

“The great number of poor people who find it so hard to live,” she answered.  “Some of the small houses round here are awful, and Mr. Malcolm—­he is the vicar of the church here, and he called yesterday—­tells me that they are nothing like so bad as in some other parts of London.  And then you take a bus, it is such a short distance—­and the shops are full of wonderful things at such fabulous prices, and the carriages and houses are so lovely, and people seem to be showering money right and left everywhere.”

“It is the same in all large cities,” he answered, “more or less.  There must always be rich and poor, when a great community are herded together.  As a rule, the extreme poor are a worthless lot.”