"Poor old Fan!" said Phyllis, re-appearing; "I don't think she was ever so pleased at seeing any one before."
"Fancy, all these months with Aunt Caroline!"
"She says little," went on Phyllis; "but from the few remarks dropped, I should say that her sufferings had been pretty severe."
"Yes," answered Gertrude, absently. The last remark had fallen on unheeding ears; her attention was entirely absorbed by a cab which had stopped before the door. One moment, and she was on the stairs; the next, she and Lucy were in one another's arms.
"Oh, Gerty, is it a hundred years?"
"Thousands, Lucy. How well you look, and I believe you have grown."
Up and down, hand in hand, went the sisters, into every nook and corner of the small domain, exclaiming, explaining, asking and answering a hundred questions.
"Oh, Lucy," cried Gertrude, in a burst of enthusiasm, as they stood together in the studio, "this is work, this is life. I think we have never worked or lived before."
Fan and Phyllis came rustling between the curtains to join them.
"Here we all are," went on Gertrude. "I hope nobody is afraid, but that every one understands that this is no bed of roses we have prepared for ourselves."