The studio was dimly lighted, and Percival, either by accident or design, allowed the curtain to fall entirely over the aperture between the two rooms. He looked round him. Mr. Heron was absent, and they had the room to themselves. Several unfinished canvasses were leaning against the walls; the portrait of an exceedingly cadaverous-looking old man was conspicuous upon the artist's easel; the lay figure was draped like a monk, and had a cowl drawn over its stiff, wooden head. Percival shrugged his shoulders.
"My father's studio isn't an attractive-looking place," he said, with a growl of disgust in his voice.
"Why did you come into it?" said Elizabeth.
"I had a good reason," he answered, looking at her.
If she understood the meaning that he wished to convey, it certainly did not embarrass or distress her in the least. She gave him a very friendly, but serious, kind of smile, and went on calmly with her work of sorting the papers and sketches that lay scattered around her.
"Elizabeth," he said, "I am offended with you."
"That happens so often," she replied, "that I am never greatly surprised nor greatly concerned at hearing it."
"It is of little consequence to you, no doubt," said Percival, rather huffily; "but I am—for once—perfectly serious, Elizabeth. Why could you not come down to dinner to-night when Rupert and I were here?"
"I very seldom come down to dinner. I was with the children."
"The children are not your business."