"The location counts," she insisted.
"With some people."
"With the helpful people. I've thought it over carefully; I've used my eyes and ears. The studio unquestionably carries weight. It ought to be something more than a workshop, as you call it. It should have atmosphere. Even our friend down the street has achieved that. Barbaric as it is, MacGregor's studio has a distinct artistic unity."
"Mac's place reflects his work. So does mine."
"Yours! It's a jumble of everything, a junk-shop."
"Of course it is," he laughed. "I've ransacked two-thirds of these treasures from the Ghetto. But even junk-shops have atmosphere—a musty one—and so, it logically follows, must my studio."
She indulged his trifling with a divine patience.
"Could you receive Mrs. Joyce-Reeves in such a place?" she queried sweetly.
"Certainly; if any possible errand could bring that high and mighty personage over the door-sill."
"There is a possible reason."