Adam puts down his charcoal and follows her to the office.

There over the telephone is poor Miss Philbrick’s notice written in the script writing she learned at night classes in Southampton Row.

“Students are forbidden to use the telephone during working hours.”

“Good morning, Imogen.”

“Yes, quite safely—very tired though.”

“I can’t, Imogen—for one thing I haven’t the money.”

“No, you can’t afford it either. Anyway, I’m dining with Lady R. tonight. You can tell me then, surely?”

“Why not?”

“Who lives there?”

“Not that awful Basil Hay?”

“Well, perhaps he is.”

“I used to meet him at Oxford sometimes.”

“WELL, IF YOU’RE SURE YOU CAN PAY I’LL COME TO LUNCHEON WITH YOU.”

“WHY THERE? IT’S FRIGHTFULLY EXPENSIVE.”

“STEAK TARTARE—WHAT’S THAT?”

The Cambridge voice explains, “Quite raw, you know, with olives and capers and vinegar and things.”

“My dear, you’ll turn into a werewolf.”

“I should love it if you did.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am getting a little morbid.”

“One-ish. Please don’t be too late—I’ve only three-quarters of an hour.”

“Good-bye, Imogen.”

So much of the forbidden conversation is audible to Miss Philbrick.

Adam returns to the studio and draws a few heavy and insensitive lines.

He rubs at them but they still show up grubbily in the pores of the paper. He tears up his drawing; old Mr. Maltby remonstrates; young Mr. Maltby is explaining the construction of the foot and does not look up.