mby learned why.

Sir Jacques, for the first time since the Duveens had resided there,
crossed the threshold of Dovelands Cottage, bringing a letter which he
had received from Duveen, then newly arrived in Flanders. That
memorable visit was the first of many; and the diabolical patience with
which Sir Jacques for over two years had awaited his opportunity was
further exemplified in his conduct of the affair now that he was truly
entered upon it.

At his first word of greeting, Flamby read his secret and her soul rose
up in arms; by the time that he took his departure she doubted her
woman's intuition--and wondered. Such was the magic of the silver voice,
the Christian humility expressed in the bearing of that black figure.
And when he had come again, and yet again, the first, true image began
to fade more and more, and she listened with less and less misgiving to
the words of encouragement which he bestowed upon her drawings. Her
father, although himself no draughtsman, understood art as he understood
all that was beautiful, and had taught her the laws of perspective and
the tricks of the pencil as he had taught her the ways of the woodland
and of the creatures who dwelt there. On her sixteenth birthday he had
presented Flamby with a complete water-colour outfit, together with a
number of text books; and many a golden morning had they spent together
in solving the problem of why, although all shadows look black, some are
really purple and others blue, together with kindred mysteries of the
painter's craft.

Now came Sir Jacques, a trained critic and collector, with helpful
suggestion and inspiring praise. He made no mistakes; his suggestions
held no covert significance, his praise was never extravagant. Miss
Kingsbury, of High Fielding, the local Lady Butler, hearing of Sir
Jacques' protegee, as she heard of everything else in the county, sent a
message of honeyed sweetness to Flamby, desiring her to call and bring
some of her work. Flamby had never forgotten the visit. The honey of
Miss Kingsbury was honey of Trebizond, and it poisoned poor Flamby's
happiness for many a day. Strange is the paradox of a woman's heart;
for Flamby, well knowing that this spinster's venom was a product of
jealousy--jealousy of talent, super-jealousy of youth and beauty--yet
took hurt from it and hugged the sting of cruel criticism to her breast.
In this, for all her engrafted wisdom, she showed herself a true limb of
Eve.

It was Sir