Conny spoke with somewhat exaggerated indifference, and the colour on her cheek deepened perceptibly.
"Here we are!" cried Phyllis.
The carriage had drawn up before a small, but flourishing-looking shop, above which was painted in gold letters; Maryon; Pharmaceutical Chemist.
"This is it."
Gertrude spoke with curious intensity, and her heart beat fast as they dismounted and rang the bell.
Mrs. Maryon, the chemist's wife, a thin, thoughtful-looking woman of middle-age, with a face at once melancholy and benevolent, opened the door to them herself, and conducted them over the apartments.
They went up a short flight of stairs, then stopped before the opening of a narrow passage, adorned with Virginia cork and coloured glass.
"We will look at the studio first, please," said Gertrude, and they all trooped down the little, sloping passage.
"Reminds one forcibly of a summer-house at a tea-garden, doesn't it?" said Phyllis, turning her pretty head from side to side. They laughed, and the melancholy woman was seen to smile.