.

"And I," he confessed, "have been posing for my portrait. Don't," he
pleaded, "laugh at me--it isn't for a miniature or a locket; it's
life-size, horribly life-size. I've had to stand, off and on with the
rests, three hours a day, and I've done so _every day for three weeks_."

Mrs. Falconer regarded him with indulgent amusement.

"It's your fault--you took me to see those awful school-girl paintings
and pointed out that poor young creature to me." And he was
interrupted by her exclamation:

"Oh, how _dear_ of you, Jimmy! how sweet and kind and ridiculous! It
won't be fit to be seen."

"Oh, never mind that," he waved; "no one need see it. I haven't--she
won't let me."

He had accepted a cup of tea from the lady's hand; he drank it off and
sat down, holding the empty cup as if he held his fate.

"Tell me," she urged, "all about it. It was just like you--any other
man would have found means to show charity, but you have shown
unselfish goodness, and that's the rarest thing in the world. Fancy
posing every day! How ghastly and how wonderful of you!"

"No," he said slowly, "it wasn't any of these things. I wanted to do
it. It amused me at first, you see. But now I am a little
annoyed--rather bothered to tell the truth--He met her eyes with almost
an appeal in his. Mrs. Falconer was in kindness bound to help him.

"Bothered? How, pray? With what part of it? You're not chivalrous
about it, are you? You're not by the way of feeling that you have
compromised her by posing?"

"Oh, no, no," he hurried; "but I do feel, and I am frank to
acknowledge, that it was a mistake. Because--do you know--that for
some absurd reason I am afraid she has become fond of me." He blushed
like a boy. Mrs. Falconer said coldly:

"Yes? Well, what of it?"

"This--" Bulstrode's voice was quiet and determined--"if I am right I
shall marry her."

Mrs. Falconer had the advantage over most women of completely
understanding the man with whom she dealt. She knew that to attempt to
turn from its just and generous source any intent of Mr. Bulstrode
would have been as futile as to attempt to turn a river from its parent
fountain.

"You're quixotic, I know, but you're not demented, and you won't
certainly marry this nobody--whose fancies or love-affairs have not the
least importance. You won't ever see her again unless you are in love
with her yourself."

Bulstrode interrupted her hastily:

"Oh, yes, I shall."

H