she imagined to be the beginning of a
brain fever, but which proved to be a state of nervous collapse,
lasting, with some intermissions, for a fortnight. At the end of that
time--whether it was that she was so fickle a creature that even Fate
could make no abiding impression on her, or that she was no longer
burdened with the decision of a momentous question--to all appearances
she recovered. So much so that, when some one sent her an invitation to
the private view at the New Gallery, she put on her best clothes (not
without a pang) and went.

Alas! the place was full of associations, melancholy with the sheeted
ghosts of the past. This time last year she had been to the private view
with Ted. They had amused themselves with laughing at the pictures, and
wondering how long it would be before one of his would be hanging
there. And as she listlessly turned the pages of her catalogue, the
first names that caught her attention were, "Haviland, Katherine, 232";
"Haviland, Edward, 296." She turned back the pages hastily to No. 232
and read, "The Witch of Atlas." That picture she knew. No. 296 gave her
"Sappho: A Study of a Head."

Of a head? Whose head?

She found the picture (not exactly in the place of honour, but agreeably
well hung and with a small crowd before it), and recognised Katherine's
striking profile raised in the attitude of a suppliant who implores, the
cloud of her dark hair flaming into bronze against a sunset sky. Ted was
rather too fond of that trick; but the study was not a mere vulgar
success--he had achieved expression in it. It was marked "Sold." There
were some lines of verse on the square panel at the base of the frame.
Ted could not have afforded such a setting for his picture, but the
frame was contributed by Mr. Percival Knowles, the purchaser of the
canvas. The same gentleman was also the author of the verse, specially
written for the portrait. Knowles, by-the-bye, was an occasional
poet--that is to say, he could burst into poetry occasionally; and
Audrey read:--

"Oh Aphrodite, queen of dread desire!
By all the dreams that throng Love's golden ways,
By all the honied vows thy votary pays,
By sacrificial wine, and holy fire!
Thou who hast made my heart thy living lyre,
Hast thou no gift for me, nor any grace?
Why hast thou turned the light of Love's sweet face
From me, the sweetest singer of Love's choir?"

"For songs that charm the long ambrosia