e missed my letter," he
repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door
of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had
reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was
narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open
the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her
own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed.

"Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion
and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification
followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so
little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you
were Miriam."

Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her
carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a
turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and
was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that
Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the
pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered.
Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and
freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he
stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less
eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young
man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria
drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met
Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned
inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as
much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not
too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model?
Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look,
for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--"

Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had
flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in
motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an
undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of
the hood, moved with it.

"You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant
alone.

"Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice
that showed nothing. She was thinking of th