“Then let him in, dear,” said Jimmie, finally.
Aline went upstairs with some unwillingness. She disapproved entirely of Renshaw. She devoutly hoped the man was sober. As she opened the front door, the sharp sound of a turning cab met her ears, and the cloaked tall figure of a woman met her astonished eyes.
“Miss Hardacre!”
“Yes, dear. Won't you let me in?”
The girl drew aside quickly, and Norma passed into the hall.
“You?” cried Aline. “I don't understand.”
“Never mind. Is Mr.—is Jimmie at home?”
“Jimmie!” The girl's heart leaped at the name. She stared wide-eyed at Norma, whose features she could scarcely discern by the pin-point of gas in the hall-lamp. “Yes. He is in the studio.”
“Can I see him? Alone? Do you mind?”
In dumb astonishment Aline took the visitor to the head of the stairs, half lit by the streak of light from the open studio door. Norma paused, bent forward, and kissed her on the cheek.