He isn't here. Come in, dear; I am sure he will be pleased to see you--we will wait.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

_My_ husband hates to be disturbed in his studio. He says he can never work again all day.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Artists are so different; Mr. Sylvester is more highly strung than Rembrandt, I sometimes think. Rembrandt likes to see his friends in his studio. I wonder where he has gone.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Gone to have a drink, I daresay.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Adelaide!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

He does drink, doesn't he--when he's thirsty anyhow? And artists are so often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Why that sigh?

MRS. SYLVESTER (_sighing again_).

Heigh ho!

MRS. TEMPENNY (_affectionately_).

Adelaide?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Eugenia!

(_They touch each other's hands sympathetically_.)

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Aren't you happy, Adelaide?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn't say as much to anybody else, but we were girls at school together.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I mean I would not say to anybody else that I am not entirely happy.

MRS. TEMPENNY (_enthusiastically_).

Do tell me all about it.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I am jealous.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Of whom?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Oh no one--of everybody; of my husband's past, which I know--of his life to-day, which is too circ.u.mspect to be sincere.

MRS. TEMPENNY (_with misgiving_).

But--but Rembrandt's life is also circ.u.mspect.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Poor child.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

You pity me?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Horribly. To be married to a painter--what a fate! To have a husband who is shut up alone all day with a creature who--who wears--

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Rembrandt's models _do_--.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Wear--?

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Plenty!