There were a number of good pictures on the walls, among them some really fine old Dutch interiors, but any artist would have turned from the best of them to study the picture silhouetted against the western window.  The girlish figure enveloped in a long loose working apron was all in shadow, but the light, slanting across the graceful head bending towards the easel, touched the brown hair with glints of gold, and gave the profile of the earnest young face, the distinctive effect of a Rembrandt portrait.

Wholly unconscious of the fact, Joyce plied her brush with capable practised fingers, so absorbed in her task that she heard nothing of the clang and roar of the streets below, seething with holiday traffic.  The elevator opposite her door buzzed up and down unheeded.  She did not even notice when it stopped on her floor, and some one walked across the corridor with a heavy tread.  But the whirr of her door bell brought her to herself with a start, and she looked up impatiently, half inclined to pay no attention to the interruption.  Then thinking it might be some business message which she could not afford to delay, she hurried to the door, brush and palette still in hand.

“Why, Phil Tremont!” she exclaimed, so surprised at sight of the tall young man who filled the doorway that she stood for an instant in open-mouthed wonder.  “Where did you drop from?  I thought you were in the wilds of Oregon or some such borderland.  Come in.”

“I got in only a few hours ago,” he answered, following her down the hall and into the studio.  “I have only been in town long enough to make my report at the office.  I’m on my way out to Stuart’s to spend Christmas with him and Eugenia, but I couldn’t resist the temptation of staying over a train to run in and take a peep at you.  It has been nearly six months, you know, since I’ve had such a chance.”

Joyce went back to her easel, as he slipped off his overcoat.  “Don’t think that because I keep on working that I’m not delighted to see you, but my orders are like time and tide.  They wait for no man.  This must be finished and out of the house to-night, and I’ve not more than fifteen minutes of good daylight left.  So just look around and make yourself at home and take my hospitable will for the deed till I get through.  In the meantime you can be telling me all about yourself.”

“There’s precious little to tell, no adventures of any kind—­just the plain routine of business.  But you’ve had changes,” he added, looking around the room with keen interest.  “This isn’t much like the bare barn of a place I saw you in last.  You must have struck oil.  Have you taken a partner?”