y, fraternising hour
when they would all be likely to be at home?

Unfortunately, as it turned out, they were none of them at home, so that
he had to fall back on neutrality and the butler, who was, however, more
luckily, an old friend. Her ladyship and Miss Dormer were absent from
town, paying a visit; and Mr. Dormer was also away, or was on the point
of going away for the day. Miss Bridget was in London, but was out;
Peter's informant mentioned with earnest vagueness that he thought she
had gone somewhere to take a lesson. On Peter's asking what sort of
lesson he meant he replied: "Oh I think--a--the a-sculpture, you know,
sir." Peter knew, but Biddy's lesson in "a-sculpture"--it sounded on the
butler's lips like a fashionable new art--struck him a little as a
mockery of the helpful spirit in which he had come to look her up. The
man had an air of participating respectfully in his disappointment and,
to make up for it, added that he might perhaps find Mr. Dormer at his
other address. He had gone out early and had directed his servant to
come to Rosedale Road in an hour or two with a portmanteau: he was going
down to Beauclere in the course of the day, Mr. Carteret being
ill--perhaps Mr. Sherringham didn't know it. Perhaps too Mr. Sherringham
would catch him in Rosedale Road before he took his train--he was to
have been busy there for an hour. This was worth trying, and Peter
immediately drove to Rosedale Road; where in answer to his ring the door
was opened to him by Biddy Dormer.

XXIX

When that young woman saw him her cheek exhibited the prettiest,
pleased, surprised red he had ever observed there, though far from
unacquainted with its living tides, and she stood smiling at him with
the outer dazzle in her eyes, still making him no motion to enter. She
only said, "Oh Peter!" and then, "I'm all alone."

"So much the better, dear Biddy. Is that any reason I shouldn't come
in?"

"Dear no--do come in. You've just missed Nick; he has gone to the
country--half an hour ago." She had on a large apron and in her hand
carried a small stick, besmeared, as his quick eye saw, with
modelling-clay. She dropped the door and fled back before him into the
studio, where, when he followed her, she was in the act of flinging a
damp cloth over a rough head, in clay, which, in the middle of the room,
was supported on a high wooden stand. The effort to hide what she had
been doing before he caught a glimpse of it made her re