“Let me see this drawing room,” said Grace.
They mounted the stairs, and Polly unlocked the door.
“Oh, what happy days I have had in this grim, sad room! It seems hard to believe that I am the same me. If that is not good grammar, you must pass it over, Grace.”
Grace was not thinking of grammar.
Her face had lighted up as she walked about the dismantled room.
“Polly,” she said, suddenly, “I fancy I have an idea this time! Why not let this room, this floor, indeed, to an artist? This enormous window looks north; it is the very best light possible. Sacha, I am convinced, will confirm what I say. Perhaps he might be able to help you.”
Polly’s eyes flashed with something of their old fire.
“It is a splendid idea! Why shouldn’t I have thought of it? I should like it, too. I adore studios, and love the smell of oils, and paints, and mediums, and models.”
At which Grace laughed.
“If you could come in close contact with some of Sacha’s old models, I fancy you might modify that last statement.”