But the handsome and arrogant young woman had begun to play her violin again, and everyone became silent. It was music which had little to say to Rosaleen; it was austere brain music; but she was enchanted to watch the musician, the exquisite movement of her right arm and wrist, the delicate interplay of the fingers of her left hand, the faint, fleeting shadows that crossed her proud, fine face. She was, Rosaleen thought, very like a picture Miss Amy had of Marie Antoinette riding in the tumbrill.
The piece was ended, and they all applauded.
“That’s Bainbridge,” Miss Mell explained. “My pal, the one who has the studio with me. She’s absolutely a genius.”
Rosaleen regarded her with undisguised admiration.
“I wish I could come with you!” she said, regretfully.
II
Miss Mell and Miss Bainbridge were in that state of exhaustion in which any sort of rest or pause is fatal. They had agreed to go on working until they were really “settled,” with everything unpacked and neat. Enthusiasm had entirely gone now; they were working doggedly, and, secretly, without much hope of ever being done. Miss Bainbridge was on her knees before a packing case filled with papers, drawings, music, and that mass of letters, bills, and receipts one feels obliged to keep. Miss Mell was feebly cleaning out the hearth, which was quite full of the debris of the former tenants.
There was a knock at the door, and they both called out, “Come in!” but without interest.
It was Miss Waters and Rosaleen. Miss Waters beckoned mysteriously to Miss Mell, and they vanished into the back room.
“Have you got your third person for the studio yet?” Miss Waters enquired, anxiously.