"Well?" demanded Elliott
"Well," said Clifford, "his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a painted Jezabel."
"Probably," replied the other.
"He's a trump!" said Clifford, "and if he swears the world is as good and pure as his own heart, I'll swear he's right."
Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his sketch saying, "He will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E."
"He's a lesson to me," said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table before him.
He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from "Miss Helyett," and sat down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was written and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two or three times, whistling.
"Going out?" inquired the other, without turning.
"Yes," he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott's shoulder, watching him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread.
"To-morrow is Sunday," he observed after a moment's silence.