centre of the studio, a huge armchair, with a
revolving smoking-table, by its side. The chair was for Dearborn to loll
in and dream in whilst Potowski played and sang at the piano. Dearborn
was thus supposed to work the libretto for "Fiametta."

Potowski, who came in at all hours, charmed the very walls with his
voice, sang and improvised; Fairfax worked on the study he was making
for Barye, and Dearborn, in the big chair, swathed in his wrapper, made
notes, or more often fell serenely to sleep, for he worked all night on
his own beloved drama, and if it had not been for Potowski he would have
slept nearly all day. The Pole, at present, had gone to Belgium to fetch
his wife, who had been away for several weeks.

When there was a knock on the door on this afternoon, the young men,
used to unexpected visitors, cried out--

"Come in--entrez donc!"

But there was the murmur of a woman's voice without, and Fairfax, his
sculpting tools in his hands, opened the door. It was Mrs. Faversham.

He stood for a dazed second unable even to welcome her. Dearborn sprang
up in embarrassment and amusement. Mrs. Faversham herself was not
embarrassed.

"Is not Potowski here?" shaking hands with Antony. "I had expected to
meet him. Didn't he tell you that I was coming? I understood that you
expected me."

Fairfax shut the door behind her. "You are more than welcome. This is my
friend, Mr. Dearborn. You may have heard Potowski speak of him."

She shook hands with the red-haired playwright, whom she captivated at
once by her cordiality and her sweet smile. Of course she had heard of
him and the libretto. Potowski had given her to understand that she
might hear the overture of "Fiametta."

The young men exchanged glances and neither of them told her that
Potowski was in Belgium. Dearborn rolled the chair toward her and waved
to it gracefully.

"This is the chair of the muses, Mrs. Faversham, and not one of them has
been good enough to sit in it before now."

She laughed and sat down, and Fairfax looked at her with joy.

"We must give Mrs. Faversham some tea," said Dearborn, "and if you will
excuse me while we wait for Potowski, I will pop out and get some milk
and you boil the tea-kettle."

He took his hat and cape and ran out, leaving them alone.

Mrs. Faversham looked at the sculptor in his velveteen working clothes,
the background of his workshop, its disorder and its poverty around him.

"How nice it is here," she said. "