r. Buckingham Smith, stooping over Marguerite's
portfolio of designs, and glancing round at her for permission to open
it. Already his hand was on the tape.

"On no account!" she cried. "No! No!... Mr. Cannon, please take it from
him!" She was serious.

"Oh! All right! All right!" Mr. Buckingham Smith rose to the erect
good-humouredly.

After a decent interval George took the portfolio under his arm.
Marguerite was giving thanks for hospitality. They left. George was
singularly uplifted by the fact that she never concealed from him those
designs upon which Mr. Buckingham Smith had not been allowed to gaze.
And, certain contretemps and disappointments notwithstanding, he was
impressed by the entity of the studio. It had made a desirable picture
in his mind: the romantic paraphernalia, the etchings, the canvases, the
lights and shadows, the informality, the warm odours of the lamp and of
the Pilsener, the dazzling white of the tablecloth, the quick, positive
tones of Buckingham Smith, who had always to be convincing not only
others but himself that he was a strong man whose views were
unassailable, the eyes of Buckingham Smith like black holes in his
handsome face, the stylish gestures and coarse petulance of Buckingham
Smith, the shy assurance of little old Prince. He envied the pair. Their
existence had a cloistral quality which appealed to something in him.
They were continually in the studio, morning, afternoon, evening. They
were independent. They had not to go forth to catch omnibuses and
trains, to sit in offices, to utilize the services of clerks, to take
orders, to 'Consider the idiosyncrasies of superiors. They were
self-contained, they were consecrated, and they were free. No open
competitions for them! No struggles with committees and with
contractors! And no waiting for the realization of an idea! They sat
down and worked, and the idea came at once to life, complete, without
the necessity of other human co-operation! They did not sit in front of
a painting or etching and say, as architects had too often to say in
front of their designs: "That is wasted! That will never come into
being." Architecture might be the art of arts, and indeed it was, but
there were terrible drawbacks to it....

And next he was outside in the dark with Marguerite Haim, and new,
intensified sensations thrilled him. She was very marvellous in the
dark.

Mr. Haim had not returned.

"Well!" she muttered; and then dreamily: "What