lly too exasperating, a thing only to be explained by
tapping one's forehead. Every now and then he still heard of her, living
down there, spending her days out in the woods and fields, and sometimes
even her nights, they said, and steadily growing poorer and thinner and
more eccentric; becoming, in short, impossibly difficult, as only
Englishwomen can. People would speak of her as "such a dear," and talk
of her charm, but always with that shrug which is hard to bear when
applied to one's relations. What she did with the productions of her
brush he never inquired, too disillusioned by that experience. Poor
Alicia!

The pink berries glowed on the grey stone, and he had yet another
memory. A family occasion when Uncle Martin Scudamore departed this
life, and they all went up to bury him and hear his Will. The old chap,
whom they had looked on as a bit of a disgrace, money-grubbing up in the
little grey Yorkshire town which owed its rise to his factory, was
expected to make amends by his death, for he had never married--too sunk
in Industry, apparently, to have the time. By tacit agreement, his
nephews and nieces had selected the Inn at Bolton Abbey, nearest beauty
spot, for their stay. They had driven six miles to the funeral in three
carriages. Alicia had gone with him and his brother, the solicitor. In
her plain black clothes she looked quite charming, in spite of the
silver threads already thick in her fine dark hair, loosened by the moor
wind. She had talked of painting to him with all her old enthusiasm, and
her eyes had seemed to linger on his face as if she still had a little
weakness for him. He had quite enjoyed that drive. They had come rather
abruptly on the small grimy town clinging to the river-banks, with old
Martin's long yellow-brick house dominating it, about two hundred yards
above the mills. Suddenly under the rug he felt Alicia's hand seize his
with a sort of desperation, for all the world as if she were clinging to
something to support her. Indeed, he was sure she did not know it was
his hand she squeezed. The cobbled streets, the muddy-looking water, the
dingy, staring factories, the yellow staring house, the little
dark-clothed, dreadfully plain work-people, all turned out to do a last
honour to their creator; the hideous new grey church, the dismal
service, the brand-new tombstones--and all of a glorious autumn day! It
was inexpressibly sordid--too ugly for words! Afterwards the Will was
read to th