Then a perpendicular slit of light showed itself--and a portal slightly
open could be distinguished.

"I shall quit here," said Tommy. "You go right in."

"You aren't leaving us?" exclaimed Miss Ingate in alarm.

"I won't go in," Tommy persisted in a quiet satiric tone. "I'll leave my
door open below, and see you when you come down."

She could be heard descending.

"Why, I guess they're here," said a voice, Nick's, within, and the door was
pulled wide open.

"My legs are all of a tremble!" muttered Miss Ingate.

Nick's studio seemed larger than reality because of its inadequate
illumination. On a small paint-stained table in the centre was an oil-lamp
beneath a round shade that had been decorated by some artist's hand with a
series of reclining women in many colours. This lamp made a moon in the
midnight of the studio, but it was a moon almost without rays; the shade
seemed to imprison the light, save that which escaped from its superior
orifice. Against the table stood a tall thin woman in black. Her face was
lit by the rays escaping upward; a pale, firm, bland face, with rather
prominent cheeks, loose grey hair above, surmounted by a toque. The dress
was dark, and the only noticeable feature of it was that the sleeves were
finished in white linen; from these the hands emerged calm and veined under
the lampshade; in one of them a pair of gloves were clasped. On the table
lay a thin mantle.