"Would you prefer a highball?" she enquired. "I could fix you one."
"No, thank you." He rose and began to walk nervously about the studio.
Her perplexed, brown eyes followed him. It was clear that she could not make him out.
Natural chagrin at a clandestine marriage might account for his manner. Probably it was that, because Stephanie could not have meant anything more personal and serious to him, or he could not have remained away so long.
He stopped abruptly in his aimless promenade and turned to Helen:
"Am I in the way?" he asked.
"My dear Mr. Cleland," she said, "we are a perfectly informal community. If you were in the way I'd say so. Also, I have a bed-room where I can retire when Steve comes in. Or you and she can go into her room to talk things over." She lighted another cigarette, rose, strolled over to the wax horse, with a friendly smile at him.
"I was just making a sketch," she said. "I've a jolly commission—two bronze horses for the Hispano-Moresque Museum. The Cid is on one, Saladin on the other. I was just fussing with an idea when you rang."
He came and stood beside her, looking at the sketch.
"I've a fine, glass-roofed courtyard in the rear of the studio for my animal models—horses and dogs and any beast I require," she explained. "This sort of thing comes first, of course. I think I'll get Oswald to pose for the Cid."