This studio looked inviting, in spite of its untidiness. There was an air of comfort about it, though everything in it was shabby. The wicker lounge-chairs were roomy and softly cushioned. The big, faded Eastern rug before the fire was still a charming bit of color, as were the leopard skins. The walls were covered with pictures and sketches. Easels, quaint old tables, and a book-case completed the furniture, except for an old divan, which Dan had picked up at a sale, and on which he not unfrequently passed the night.
An agreeable (to Dan) odor of stale tobacco and turpentine permeated the atmosphere.
Dan listened for the cart that was to bring his remaining luggage. It was his “Madonna” he was most anxious to get, and unpack. He had made up his mind to make a copy of it for himself before sending the original to the church.
He would have a free fortnight before he went to a friend’s studio in Chelsea to paint the portrait of a society woman, who was not a beauty, but who was immensely rich. Stanley Browne always allowed Dan to share his studio, for they had been fellow-students in old Paris days and had kept up a close friendship.
Miss Linkin put her head in at the door. It was a remarkable head. The face was long, narrow, and faded, and the grey hair was parted in the middle and brushed flat on the temples, where it suddenly became two stiff corkscrew curls. These two curls on either side, bobbed up and down when she nodded, which she did very often, being given to that mode of emphasis.
The pale blue eyes were still bright and looked almost out of place in the wrinkled setting. The mob cap, stiff and ornamented with stiff bows of lavender ribbon, completed the picture the firelight revealed.
“Your luggage is come, Dan,” she said; “but I beg of you don’t begin to unpack now, I have arranged for supper to be earlier.”
Dan rushed out to receive his beloved picture, and having seen it deposited in the studio, went in to supper.
“A Colonel Lane called here this morning, to know if you were back,” said Mrs. Webster over supper. “Who is he?”
“A great friend of the Barrimores,” said Dan. “He is a real good sort.”