Jean now recalled this elusive detail most vividly, but she kept her head.
"Probably in Mr. Atwood's work," she suggested coldly.
"Of course," seconded Atwood, keen to end the incident. "You will find Miss Fanshaw in half my recent stuff."
"The living face has no pictorial associations whatever," retorted his sister, with decision. "I shall remember in time. But go on with your work, Craig. I did not come to disturb you—merely to bring a piece of news which I'll tell you as soon as I get my breath."
Atwood placed a chair and, returning to his easel, made a show of work which Jean's trained eye knew for his usual polite pretense with visitors who assumed themselves no hindrance; while Mrs. Van Ostade, throwing back her furs, relegated the model to the ranks of the inanimate studio properties, of which her leisured survey now took stock.
"Those stairs!" she said again, pursuing her breath by the unique method of lavishing more. "Really, Craig, you couldn't have pitched on a more inconvenient rookery."
"We thought it a miracle for the money once," he reminded. "I dare say I could find a more convenient workshop in one of the new office-buildings, but then I shouldn't have my open fire."
"You could have it at the Copley Studios, and modern comforts, too."
"Up there!" he scoffed. "I don't belong in the pink-tea circle, Julie."
Mrs. Van Ostade refused to smile with him.