They went upstairs. A door on the first-floor landing immediately opposite the head of the staircase led into a pleasant, lofty room, with old-fashioned bedroom furniture in it.
"This is my aunt's room. She wasn't really my aunt, of course, but I called her so."
"Quite. Where does that second door lead to?"
"That's the dressing-room. Nurse Armstrong slept there while Auntie was ill."
Parker glanced in to the dressing-room, took in the arrangement of the bedroom and expressed himself satisfied.
She walked past him without acknowledgment while he held the door open. She was a sturdily-built girl, but moved with a languor distressing to watch—slouching, almost aggressively unalluring.
"You want to see the studio?"
"Please."
She led the way down the six steps and along a short passage to the room which, as Parker already knew, was built out at the back over the kitchen premises. He mentally calculated the distance as he went.
The studio was large and well-lit by its glass roof. One end was furnished like a sitting-room; the other was left bare, and devoted to what Nellie called "mess." A very ugly picture (in Parker's opinion) stood on an easel. Other canvases were stacked round the walls. In one corner was a table covered with American cloth, on which stood a gas-ring, protected by a tin plate, and a Bunsen burner.