“Well, Hermit.” she observed, when he made no remark.  “As the mountain would not come to Mahomet, the prophet has come to the mountain.”

“The mountain is welcome,” said Lambert diplomatically, and stood aside, so that she might enter.  Then adopting the bluff and breezy, rough-and-ready-man-to-man attitude, which Miss Greeby liked to see in her friends, he added:  “Come in, old girl!  It’s a pal come to see a pal, isn’t it?”

“Rather,” assented Miss Greeby, although, woman-like, she was not entirely pleased with this unromantic welcome.  “We played as brats together, didn’t we?

“Yes,” she added meditatively, when following Lambert into his studio, “I think we are as chummy as a man and woman well can be.”

“True enough.  You were always a good sort, Clara.  How well you are looking—­more of a man than ever.”

“Oh, stop that!” said Miss Greeby roughly.

“Why?” Lambert raised his eyebrows.  “As a girl you always liked to be thought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a boy.”

“I find that I am a woman, after all,” sighed the visitor, dropping into a chair and looking round; “with a woman’s feelings, too.”

“And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to pay me a visit in the wilds,” remarked the artist imperturbably.

“What are you doing in the wilds?”

“Painting,” was the laconic retort.

“So I see.  Still-life pictures?”

“Not exactly.”  He pointed toward the easel.  “Behold and approve.”

Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because she was a woman and in love.  It was only a pictured head she saw, but the head was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from the canvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness.  The raven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders—­for the bust of the model was slightly indicated—­and there, bunched out into curls.  A red and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and dangling sequins added to its barbaric appearance.  Nose and lips and eyes, and contours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face were idealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty.  It was a gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild, untamed look which suggested unrestricted roamings and the spacious freedom of the road.

The sudden, jealous fear which surged into Miss Greeby’s heart climbed to her throat and choked her speech.  But she had wisdom enough to check unwise words, and glanced round the studio to recover her composure.  The room was small and barely furnished; a couch, two deep arm-chairs, and a small table filled its limited area.  The walls and roof were painted a pale green, and a carpet of the same delicate hue covered the floor.  Of course, there were the usual painting materials, brushes and easel and palettes and tubes of color, together with a slightly raised platform near the one window where the model could sit or stand.  The window itself had no curtains and was filled with plain glass, affording plenty of light.