I nodded, and went up the necessary six flights of stairs to a familiar landing on the third floor.
A door in front of me stood ajar, and with a sign to Nous to remain on the stairs, I knocked at it.
There was no answer and no sound from within, and thinking the room was empty after all, I pushed the door wide and went in.
It was a huge room, used as a studio, facing the north light, and with three large windows.
Before the middle one there was an easel, and the girl was in the room, standing there in front of the canvas between me and the light. She was seemingly entirely abstracted and absorbed. She was completely motionless, and for the moment she communicated her stillness to me.
I paused, silent, looking at her.
She was standing directly in front of me, facing the canvas, that was perfectly blank at present.
One hand rested on her hip, the other was raised and pressed to her head, as when a person looks into distance, and the arm and elbow and wrist traced a delicate curve against the dull grey square of London window pane.
A twist of hair about as thick as my arm fell nearly to her waist. It was decidedly not gold; that is, it did not suggest dye and the Haymarket; but it was fair and curly, and seemed to hold light imprisoned amongst it.
The figure was tall, and erred, perhaps, on the side of slightness.