oise like the sound of a distant tom-tom
summoned them to tea.

Most of the visitors took their departure soon afterwards, but Nan and
the Fentons lingered on, returning to the studio to enjoy the multitude
of sketches and studies stored away there, many of them carelessly
stacked up with their faces to the wall. Rooke made a delightful host,
pulling out one canvas after another and pouring out a stream of
amusing little tales concerning the oddities of various sitters.

Presently the door opened and the maid ushered in yet another visitor.

Nan, standing rather apart by one of the bay windows at the far end of
the room, was examining a rough sketch, in black and white. She caught
her breath suddenly at the sound of the newcomer's voice.

"I couldn't get here earlier, as I promised, Rooke, and I'm afraid the
daylight's gone. However, I've no doubt Mrs. Van Decken will look
equally charming by artificial light. In fact, I should have said it
was her natural element."

Nan, screened from the remainder of the room by the window embrasure,
let the sketch she was holding flutter to the ground.

The quiet, drawling voice was Peter's! And he didn't know she was
here! It would be horrible--horrible to meet him suddenly like
this . . . here . . . in the presence of other people.

She pressed herself closely against the wall of the recess, her breath
coming gaspingly between parched lips. The mere tones of his voice,
with their lazy, distinctive drawl, set her heart beating in great
suffocating leaps. She had never dreamed of the possibility of meeting
him--here, of all places, and the knowledge that only a few yards
separated them from one another, that if she stepped out from the
alcove which screened her she would be face to face with him, drained
her of all strength.

She stood there motionless, her back to the wall, her palms pressed
rigidly against its surface.

Was he coming towards here? . . . Now? It seemed hours since his
voice had first struck upon her ears.

At last, after what appeared an infinity of time, she heard the hum of
talk and laughter drift out of the room . . . the sound of footsteps
retreating . . . the closing of a door.

Her stiff muscles relaxed and, leaning forward, she peered into the
studio. It was empty. They had all gone, and with a sigh of relief
she stepped out from her hiding-place.

She wandered aimlessly about for a minute or two, then came to anchor
in front of Mrs