Next morning she rang up the office and gave her message; then, after a pause, she added: "By the way, did Mr. Weston turn up yesterday—Vance Weston, the storywriter, you know?" Yes; they knew; they were expecting him. But he had not appeared, and there had been no message from him. No; they hadn't his address… . She thought: "After all I was a fool not to go out to Eaglewood last night." Another radiant day—the last before winter, perhaps! Why shouldn't she dash out now, just for a few hours? A tramp in the woods would do her more good than anything… . But she lacked the energy to get into country clothes and call for the Chrysler… . "Besides, very likely that boy will turn up… ." Not that she meant to see him; but she could at least report to Lewis if he called at the office, and give whatever message he left… . It was rather petty of Lewis, she thought, not to have told her to see young Weston… .

Before twelve she rang up the office again. No; no sign of Weston; no message. How very queer… . Yes, it was queer… . Well, look here—that's you, Mr. Rauch? Yes. Well, if he should turn up today after the office was closed—supposing he'd forgotten it was a Saturday—would Mr. Rauch leave word with the janitor to tell him to come to see her? Yes, at the flat; she'd be in all the afternoon. He was just to be told to ask for Mrs. Tarrant. (In the end, Lewis would probably be grateful—though he'd never go as far as acknowledging it.)

"I think I'll try and do some painting," she said to herself as she hung up. Lewis had fitted up a rather jolly room on the roof—a sort of workshop-study, in which he had reserved a corner for her modelling and painting. He always encouraged her in the practice of the arts he had himself abandoned, and while gently disparaging her writing was increasingly disposed to think there was "something in" her experiments with paint and clay. But it was months now since she had attempted either… . She mounted to the roof studio, pulled a painting apron over her shoulders, rummaged among canvases, fussed with her easel, and got out a bunch of paper flowers which she had manufactured after reading somewhere that Cézanne's flowers were always done from paper models. "Now for a Cézanne!" she mocked.

Whenever she could persuade herself to work she still had the faculty of becoming engrossed in what she was doing, and the hours hurried by as she struggled with the mystery of mass and values. At that moment, really, she believed she was on the eve of learning how to paint. "Perhaps Lewis is right," she thought.