Vernon's concierge assured these ladies that Monsieur was at home.
"He makes the painting in this moment," she said. "Mount then, my ladies."
They mounted.
Betty remembered her last—her first—visit to his studio: when Paula had disappeared and she had gone to him for help. She remembered how the velvet had come off her dress, and how awful her hair had been when she had looked in the glass afterwards. And Lady St. Craye—how beautifully dressed, how smiling and superior!
"Hateful cat!" said Betty on the stairs.
"Eh?" said her aunt.
Now there would be no one in the studio but Vernon. He would be reading over her letters—nothing in them—only little notes about whether she would or wouldn't be free on Tuesday—whether she could or couldn't dine with him on Wednesday. But he would be reading them over—perhaps—
The key was in the door.
"Do you mind waiting on the stairs, Auntie dear," said Betty in a voice of honey; "just the first minute?—I would like to have it for us two—alone. You don't mind?"
"Do as you like," said the aunt rather sadly. "I should knock if I were you."