passionate worship manifest
in his every look, his every word. Later, he took the wrong path,
seeking to oppose her instincts, to reform her mind, eventually to
become her lord and master. Could he not even now retrace his steps?
Supposing her incapable of bowing before him, of kissing his feet,
could he not be content to make of her a loyal friend, a delightful
companion?

In that mood he hastened towards Burlington House. Seeking Monica
through the galleries, he saw her at length--sitting side by side with
that man Barfoot. They were in closest colloquy. Barfoot bent towards
her as if speaking in an undertone, a smile on his face. Monica looked
at once pleased and troubled.

The blood boiled in his veins. His first impulse was to walk straight
up to Monica and bid her follow him. But the ecstasy of jealous
suffering kept him an observer. He watched the pair until he was
descried.

There was no help for it. Though his brain whirled, and his flesh was
stabbed, he had no choice but to take the hand Barfoot offered him.
Smile he could not, nor speak a word.

'So you have come after all?' Monica was saying to him.

He nodded. On her countenance there was obvious embarrassment, but this
needed no explanation save the history of the last day or two. Looking
into her eyes, he knew not whether consciousness of wrong might be read
there. How to get at the secrets of this woman's heart?

Barfoot was talking, pointing at this picture and that, doing his best
to smooth what he saw was an awkward situation. The gloomy husband,
more like a tyrant than ever, muttered incoherent phrases. In a minute
or two Everard freed himself and moved out of sight.

Monica turned from her husband and affected interest in the pictures.
They reached the end of the room before Widdowson spoke.

'How long do you want to stay here?'

'I will go whenever you like,' she answered, without looking at him.

'I have no wish to spoil your pleasure.'

'Really, I have very little pleasure in anything. Did you come to keep
me in sight?'

'I think we will go home now, and you can come another day.'

Monica assented by closing her catalogue and walking on.

Without a word, they made the journey back to Herne Hill. Widdowson
shut himself in the library, and did not appear till dinner-time. The
meal was a pretence for both of them, and as soon as they could rise
from the table they again parted.

About ten o'clock Monica was joined by her husband i