at she had put her heart and life into the hands of the man she loved
did not prevent her from going her own way; from feeling--as she had
always felt--responsible to herself alone for her words and actions.

And the past week had seemed to emphasise these idiosyncrasies;
because, at the first mysterious breath of inspiration, the submerged
artist in her had risen again with power, had, for the time being,
dominated her,--body and soul: and she may surely be forgiven if the
'world-lifting joy' of creation swept her off her feet; if she had eyes
and thoughts for little else save the picture coming to life under her
hand. Perhaps it needs an artist, one who has felt the Divine breath
stir a spark into a flame, rightly to understand and make allowance for
such spiritual intoxication. Michael,--shallow-hearted egoist though
he might be,--would have understood: because he was an artist. But
Lenox, being simply a man and a soldier, found it difficult to
distinguish between her absorption in the picture and in the subject of
the picture; difficult to realise her momentary freedom from the
personal equation.

What with incessant sittings, and equally incessant people to tea and
dinner, he had little intimate speech of her in the daytime; and in the
long hours of wakefulness as he lay beside her listening to her even
breathing, he faced the fact that his growing irritability was due to
jealousy;--not the jealousy that doubts or suspects,--of that he was
incapable; but the primitive man's demand for exclusive possession of
his own. Probably Desmond, in such a case, would have lost his temper
and cleared the air in half an hour. But temperament is destiny: and
Lenox was not so made. He merely shut the door upon the evil thing;
and tried--not very successfully--to ignore its existence. And with
three evil spirits in possession of him, it is not surprising if at
times he gave place to the devil.

Of all this Quita was airily unaware. Since he had given up coming to
bed at unearthly hours, she concluded that he slept. Mixed motives had
held him silent in regard to the threatening shadow of opium, even
during her moment of collapse and self-reproach after the expedition
dinner; and of his dawning jealousy he was at once too ashamed and too
proud to speak.

This morning his repressed irritability had been more marked than
usual; and Quita had decided that once free from her enthralling
picture, she must devote herself defi