“I’d like to see a typical studio,” she said reflectively.

“I’ve asked you to mine often enough.”

“Yes, to tea with other people.  I don’t mean that way.  I’d like to see it when it’s not all dusted and in order for feminine inspection.  I’d like to see a man’s studio when it’s in shape for work—­with the gr-r-reat painter in a fine frenzy painting, and the model posing madly——­”

“Come on, then!  If Kathleen lets you, and you can stand it, come down and knock some day unexpectedly.”

“O Duane!  I couldn’t, could I?”

“Not with propriety.  But come ahead.”

“Naturally, impropriety appeals to you.”

“Naturally.  To you, too, doesn’t it?”

“No.  But wouldn’t it astonish you if you heard a low, timid knocking some day when you and your Bohemian friends were carousing and having a riotous time there——­”

“Yes, it would, but I’m afraid that low, timid knocking couldn’t be heard in the infernal uproar of our usual revelry.”

“Then I’d knock louder and louder, and perhaps kick once or twice if you didn’t come to the door and let me in.”

He laughed.  After a moment she laughed, too; her dark eyes were very friendly now.  Watching the amusement in his face, she continued to sip from his tall, frosted glass, quite unconscious of any distaste for it.  On the contrary, she experienced a slight exhilaration which was gradually becoming delightful to her.

“Scotch-and-soda is rather nice, after all,” she observed.  “I had no idea—­What is the matter with you, Duane?”

“You haven’t swallowed all that, have you?”

“Yes, is it much?”

He stared, then with a shrug:  “You’d better cut out that sort of thing.”

“What?” she asked, surprised.

“What you’re doing.”

“Tasting your Scotch?  Pooh!” she said, “it isn’t strong.  Do you think I’m a baby?”

“Go ahead,” he said, “it’s your funeral.”

Legs crossed, chin resting on the butt of his riding-crop, he lay back in his chair watching her.

Women of her particular type had always fascinated him; Fifth Avenue is thronged with them in sunny winter mornings—­tall, slender, faultlessly gowned girls, free-limbed, narrow of wrist and foot; cleanly built, engaging, fearless-eyed; and Geraldine was one of a type characteristic of that city and of the sunny Avenue where there pass more beautiful women on a December morning than one can see abroad in half a dozen years’ residence.

How on earth this hemisphere has managed to evolve them out of its original material nobody can explain.  And young Mallett, recently from the older hemisphere, was still in a happy trance of surprise at the discovery.

Lounging there, watching her where she sat warmly illumined by the golden light of the window-shade, he said lazily: 

“Do you know that Fifth Avenue is always thronged with you, Geraldine?  I’ve nearly twisted my head off trying not to miss the assorted visions of you which float past afoot or driving.  Some day one of them will unbalance me.  I’ll leap into her victoria, ask her if she’d mind the temporary inconvenience of being adored by a stranger; and if she’s a good sport she’ll take a chance.  Don’t you think so?”