After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie,
"I am going to see Mr. Percivale's studio, my dear: have you any objection
to going with me?"
"No, papa," she answered, blushing. "I have never seen an artist's studio
in my life."
"Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take a
cab, and it won't matter."
She ran off, and was ready in a few minutes. We gave the driver directions,
and set off. It was a long drive. At length he stopped at the door of a
very common-looking house, in a very dreary-looking street, in which no man
could possibly identify his own door except by the number. I knocked. A
woman who looked at once dirty and cross, the former probably the cause of
the latter, opened the door, gave a bare assent to my question whether Mr.
Percivale was at home, withdrew to her den with the words "second-floor,"
and left us to find our own way up the two flights of stairs. This,
however, involved no great difficulty. We knocked at the door of the front
room.
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