“Oh, no,” said June, “I shan’t.”

“Ah!  We know very well, we artists—­you take us to get what you can out of us.  I want nothing from you”—­and he blew out a cloud of June’s smoke.

Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame within her.  “Very well, then, you can take your things away.”

And, almost in the same moment, she thought:  ’Poor boy!  He’s only got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare.  In front of these people, too; it’s positively disgusting!’

Young Strumolowski shook his head violently; his hair, thick, smooth, close as a golden plate, did not fall off.

“I can live on nothing,” he said shrilly; “I have often had to for the sake of my Art.  It is you bourgeois who force us to spend money.”

The words hit June like a pebble, in the ribs.  After all she had done for Art, all her identification with its troubles and lame ducks.  She was struggling for adequate words when the door was opened, and her Austrian murmured: 

“A young lady, gnadiges Fraulein.”

“Where?”

“In the little meal-room.”

With a glance at Boris Strumolowski, at Hannah Hobdey, at Jimmy Portugal, June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity.  Entering the “little meal-room,” she perceived the young lady to be Fleur—­looking very pretty, if pale.  At this disenchanted moment a little lame duck of her own breed was welcome to June, so homoeopathic by instinct.

The girl must have come, of course, because of Jon; or, if not, at least to get something out of her.  And June felt just then that to assist somebody was the only bearable thing.

“So you’ve remembered to come,” she said.

“Yes.  What a jolly little duck of a house!  But please don’t let me bother you, if you’ve got people.”

“Not at all,” said June.  “I want to let them stew in their own juice for a bit.  Have you come about Jon?”

“You said you thought we ought to be told.  Well, I’ve found out.”

“Oh!” said June blankly.  “Not nice, is it?”

They were standing one on each side of the little bare table at which June took her meals.  A vase on it was full of Iceland poppies; the girl raised her hand and touched them with a gloved finger.  To her new-fangled dress, frilly about the hips and tight below the knees, June took a sudden liking—­a charming colour, flax-blue.

‘She makes a picture,’ thought June.  Her little room, with its whitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its black paint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the sunlight was shining, had never looked so charming, set off by this young figure, with the creamy, slightly frowning face.  She remembered with sudden vividness how nice she herself had looked in those old days when her heart was set on Philip Bosinney, that dead lover, who had broken from her to destroy for ever Irene’s allegiance to this girl’s father.  Did Fleur know of that, too?