“Take her up to the top rooms,” said he, nodding towards Betty—“they are mine. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Betty with Noll climbed up the polished, creaking old stairway.
In the courtyard the students got to their unloading, and were soon carrying the things upstairs.
Horace hoisted a couple of chairs under his arms, and joined the stream.
Betty and Noll landed in a spacious room at last, an airy large studio that has been the early dwelling-place of more than one man of genius; and Horace, arriving close on their heels, set down the chairs and bade Betty welcome to his home. They were all to lunch together as his guests as soon as the students had set out the place.
The great empty room was very soon an inviting-looking habitation. From a back room Jonkin was bringing in chairs and lounges that had never known the handcart. And the young fellows were cheerily laying rugs, nailing up mirrors, and fixing the stove, singing and skylarking—the walls were soon a pleasure to look upon, with a few posters of Steinlen’s and the Beggarstaffs, and sketches, and gay odds and ends. The young fellows worked away with a will.
The room was nearly wholly furnished, and the youngsters were beginning to sit about, chatting and smoking, on the floor as often as not, when the door of the little room off the studio was flung open and the girl Babette appeared, wearing with dainty grace the delicate fineries of fashion that a Frenchwoman knows so well how to put on.
There was a sudden silence.
The girl halted midway down the room, her eyes fixed on Betty where she sat on a divan under the high studio window.
“Mother of God!” said the girl hoarsely—“what a beautiful woman!”