ne it was like a sudden peep into fairyland. The rough wooden
walls of the studio had been covered with a soft brown embossed paper,
that served as a background for sketches, framed and unframed, which
were hung there. Pieces of tapestry and oriental curtains were draped
between, and large blue-and-white willow-pattern plates made a frieze
above. A rare walnut cabinet, a Japanese screen, a gate-legged table,
some Chippendale chairs, and a carved oak cupboard composed the
furniture of the room; and there were scattered about a large number of
artistic "properties"--bright scarves, shells, beads, pottery, vases,
pewter, and standing on the floor a huge brass jar filled with branches
of flaming autumn leaves.

From the low arm-chair by the fire-place rose Miss Lindsay, a fitting
centre for her beautiful surroundings. She was one of those people who
seem neither old nor young, for her intense personality quite
overmastered any ravages time might have made in her appearance. The
passing years, while they had brought a grey thread or two among the
brown of the hair, had mellowed her expression; and the shining hazel
eyes seemed as the windows of a soul behind, noble, tender, and full of
sympathy. They were merry eyes, too, and they danced as their owner
welcomed her guests.

"I've been expecting you, and the kettle's boiling! Sit here, Claudia,
and you here, Kilmeny! Lorraine is her name? Never mind, I shall call
her what I like. I hope you're fond of potato cake? And shortbread? It's
the real kind from Edinburgh. You'd rather begin with plain bread and
butter? What well brought-up girls!"

Seated on a round, silk cushion-footstool by the cheery wood fire,
drinking tea from a cup covered with little pink roses, with the scent
of late carnations wafted from a vase on the table, and her elbow almost
touching the delicate blue-green velvet of Miss Lindsay's artistic
dress, Lorraine looked round the studio, fascinated. She thought she had
never seen such a delightful place. It appealed intensely to her
romantic side, and with its bright draperies and cosy corners seemed
like the opening scene of a novel. She was glad that the tea gave her
some excuse for silence. She was too much interested in gazing about to
find words for conversation.

Their hostess, wise in her generation, left her to herself until potato
cakes and Scotch shortbread should thaw the ice and loose her tongue,
and meantime discussed mutual friends with Claud