She hastened into her bedroom, which opened out of the studio, and began to make a hasty toilet. The room was untidy and not very clean, and if to the garments revealed when the dressing-gown was thrown aside the same remark applied, it must in justice be remembered that even perfect cleanliness is dependent upon the amount of living wage. By the time the downstairs bell rang at a few minutes past four, Philippa looked like the Blessed Damosel, and Mr. Nevern, as he followed her up the studio stairs, felt what it was to be on the right side of the gold bar of heaven.
“Can’t I help?” he begged, as she began to make preparations for tea. It seemed a profanation that she should stoop to put the kettle on the fire. Yet how wonderfully it became her to bend her long, graceful body, and how she seemed to dignify and make mysterious the simplest actions! By the time he received a cup from her hands, Mr. Nevern was in a state bordering on spiritual exaltation.
“I have had a holiday to-day,” she told him, leaning back in the one comfortable chair the room contained. “Mr. Kingslake is out of town on business till to-morrow.”
Her companion’s face darkened with envy of the man with whom she spent half of every day.
“How long have you—had this work?” he inquired, trying to speak naturally.
“I’ve only just begun. It’s interesting, of course. But I can’t say I’m not glad of a long day to myself sometimes. It’s good in this hurried age to have time to possess one’s soul, isn’t it?”
“It was very good of you to let me come this afternoon,—to let me disturb you,” murmured Nevern.
“On the contrary, I wanted to make my holiday complete,” she returned, with a smile which set the young man’s heart beating. “How is the book going?” she pursued, placing her left hand tenderly on a slim volume of verse which lay on the table beside her.
Nevern, following the motion of her hand, glowed with joy.
“Not well,” was all he could find to say, however, and that gloomily.