at the secretiveness of London. His house and
hers were not more than half a mile apart, and yet in eleven years he
had never set eyes on her house. Nearly always, on leaving his house, he
would go up Elm Park Gardens and turn to the right. If he was not in the
car he would never turn to the left. Occasionally he had flown past the
end of the Grove in the car; not once, however, had he entered the
Grove. He lived in Chelsea and she lived in Chelsea, but not the same
Chelsea; his was not the Chelsea of the studios and the King's Road.
They had existed close together, side by side, for years and years--and
she had been hidden from him.

As they walked towards the studio door she told him that 'they' had
buried her father a week ago and that 'they' were living in the studio,
and had already arranged to let the lower part of the house. She had the
air of assuming that he was aware of the main happenings in her life,
only a little belated in the knowledge of her father's death. She was
quite cheerful. He pretended to himself to speculate as to the identity
of her husband. He would not ask: "And who is your husband?". All the
time he knew who her husband was: it could be no other than one man. She
opened the studio door with a latchkey. He was right. At a table Mr.
Prince was putting sheets of etching-paper to soak in a porcelain bath.

"Well! Well! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Prince warmly, not flustered, not a
bit embarrassed, and not too demonstrative. He came forward, delicately
drying the tips of his fingers on a rag, and shook hands. His hair was
almost white, his thin, benevolent face amazingly lined; his voice had a
constant little vibration. Yet George could not believe that he was an
old man.

"He only heard to-day about father, and he's called at once," said
Marguerite. "Isn't it just like him?"

The last phrase surprised and thrilled George. Did she mean it? Her
kind, calm, ingenuous face showed that obviously she meant it.

"It is," said Mr. Prince seriously. "Very good of you, old man."

After some talk about Mr. Haim, and about old times, and about changes,
during which Marguerite took off her matron's coat and Mr. Prince gently
hung it up for her, they all sat down near to one another and near the
unlighted stove. The studio seemed to be precisely as of old, except
that it was very clean. Marguerite, in a high-backed wicker-chair, began
slowly to remove her hat, which she perched behind her on the chair. Mr.
Pr