The studio had not changed. The sun flooded it.
Sweetheart sat in the broken armchair and watched me struggle with the
packing. Every now and then she made an impulsive movement toward the
heap of clothes on the floor, which I checked with a "Thanks! I can fix
it all alone, Sweetheart."
Clifford seemed to extract amusement from it all, and said as much to
Rowden, who was as usual ruining my zitherine by trying to play it like
a banjo.
Elliott, knowing he could be of no use to us, had the decency to
sit outside the studio on one of the garden benches. He appeared at
intervals at the studio door, saying, "Come along, Clifford; they don't
want you messing about. Drop that banjo, Rowden, or Jack will break
your head with it--won't you, Jack?"