night, old fellow; I'm afraid I've sent you to sleep with my
yarns."

"Not a bit. We'll have some more to-morrow."

To-morrow?

"What's the matter with the boy, Kathy? He looks seedy."

"Oh, nothing. He's not over-strong, perhaps, but he's all right."

"What's he doing with himself here?"

"Painting. Oh, Vincent, I should like you to see some of his things, now
he's gone!"

All her pride in her brother was roused, perhaps by Vincent's boasting.
She lifted the white linen cloth that covered one of Ted's easels, and
revealed the portrait of Audrey. She had not guessed the truth; if she
had, she would not have looked at Vincent just then. The effect she had
produced was unmistakable. The blood rose to his face in a wave that
died suddenly away, leaving a yellowish pallor under its sunburn.

"How beautiful!" he said softly, more to himself than Katherine.

He gazed at the portrait as if his eyes would never be satisfied with
seeing. The pathos in his face gave it a sort of spirituality; and
Katherine noticed his hand trembling as he helped her to cover the
picture again.

"It's like her--as only genius could make it."

Only genius? Did he think that only genius had wrought that work of
transfiguration, in which Katherine found it hard to see any likeness to
the woman as she knew her now? She had read the secret of Vincent's
hope. Ought she to let him believe a lie? Did not she, Ted's sister, of
all people owe him the truth? No. Vincent's eyes looked as if they
wanted sleep before everything. Sufficient unto the night is the evil
thereof. And perhaps, after all, she had been mistaken. Hardy held out
his hand, said a short good-night, and was gone before she could say
more.

There flashed back on her the memory of Audrey's first visit to her. She
recalled her little self-conscious air of possession in speaking of her
cousin. She was morally certain that Audrey had treated Vincent as she
had treated Ted.

"Beware of the woman who kisses you on both cheeks; it's too much for
friendship, and too little for love!"

Hardy went out of doors, turned on to the Embankment, and so on to
Chelsea, for the third time that day. He wanted to assure himself of
Audrey's nearness by one more sight of the brown brick shrine that held
her. The house stood as he had seen it once before, asleep in the yellow
gaslight, shut in from the road by the trees, screened from the lamps on
the Embankment by the storm-shutters folded over i