patience, ended rather better than
it began. Lord Reckage invited Rennes to accompany them home. The artist
did not appear, at first, in the mood to accept that invitation. He,
too, seemed to have many things he wished to think about undisturbed,
and in the silence of his own company. His hesitation passed, however;
the kindness in his nature had been roused by something unusual,
haunting, ominous in Robert's face.

"I will come," said he.

All the way, on their walk to Almouth House, he kept Reckage amused.
Orange never once felt under the necessity to speak. He was able to
dream, to hold his breath, to remember that he loved and was loved
again, that he would see her to-morrow--to-morrow quite early, and then,
no more unutterable farewells, heart-desolating separations. He
surprised himself by saying aloud--"I love you ... I love you." The two
men, engrossed in talk, did not hear him. But he had caught the words,
and it seemed as though he heard his own voice for the first time.

"You must want some supper," said Reckage--"a rum omelette."

"No! no! I couldn't."

He sat down to the table, however, and watched them eat. First the
burlesque was discussed, then the actresses, the dresses, the dancing.

"Russia is the place for dancing," said Reckage, "I assure you. There
was a dancer at Petersburg.... Something-or-other-_ewski_ was her name,
and a fellow shot himself while I was there on her account. An awful
fool. I can tell you who painted her portrait. A Frenchman called
Carolus-Duran. I believe he has a career before him. What is your
opinion of French art?"

Rennes had studied in Paris and was well acquainted with the artist in
question. They talked about the exhibitions of the year and the prices
paid at a recent sale of pictures.

"Old Garrow has some fine pictures," said Reckage. "I would give a good
deal for his Ghirlandajo. Do you know it? And then that noble Tintoret?
There are so many persons whose position in life compels them to
encourage art without having any real enjoyment of it. Garrow is one of
those persons. But his daughter, Lady Sara, has a touch of genius. She's
a musician. You have heard her play, haven't you, Robert?"

"Yes."

Robert had, at that instant, observed upon the mantelpiece a letter
addressed to himself. It was from Brigit. He grew pale, and retired,
with the little envelope lightly written on, to a far corner of the
room. For some moments he could not break the seal. The s