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?"

"Several of them," she replied, "although I don't know whether they
should be called partners or boarders or adopted waifs. They are all