As they drew near, Kathleen stopped and clasped her hands, and laughter bubbled from her lips.
"That's clever!" she exclaimed heartily, and Phil's eyes danced as she met them.
A swinging sign had been hung above the low door. Upon it strutted a splendid cock and above his proudly lifted comb appeared the legend:—
Villa Chantecler.
Phil threw open the low door with a sweeping bow; and Kathleen paused on the threshold with a low cry of surprise; then stepped into the cool, dusky interior.
She found herself in a low-ceiled room with small-paned windows set high. A golden radiance streamed through, falling on the soft tone of floor and walls.
On a table draped with dull green a tall candlestick and ivory-tinted plate reflected gleams of light.
Kathleen sank on the cushions of a long, low divan.
"You can paint Rembrandt portraits in here!" she said. "Don't explain how you've done it. I don't want to know. It is the most restful, delightful studio I've ever seen—and smelling of ambergris?"
"No, only of bay leaves."