Suddenly the peace of eventide was rudely shattered by the jarring clank of a motor being geared-up for starting. Evidently Ghostie's friends were departing in the same aloof spirit with which they had held apart all the afternoon. No one in the studio stirred to speed the parting guests. It did not seem fitting to obtrude upon the pride of the great. A woman's voice bade good-bye, and Ghostie was heard warning them of a large rock fifty yards up the lane. A man called good-night, and they were off.
"By Jove! I know that fellow's voice," puzzled Sarle. April thought she did too, but she was in a kind of happy trance where voices did not matter. The next episode was Ghostie at the studio window blotting out the evening skies.
"They have gone," she timidly announced.
"Ah! Joy go with them," remarked Clive, more in relief than regret.
"But there is still one of them in my room."
"What?"
"She has been waiting to speak to you all the afternoon; they all have, but they could not face the crowd."
"Pore fellers," said Clive, with cutting irony.
"The one in my room's—a girl," said Ghostie—"a friend of yours."
"She has strange ways," commented Clive glumly. "But ask her to come in. These also are my friends."