aware of the miles of
streets through which she was being carried. Indeed, she forgot to
change omnibuses at Oxford Street, and was borne some distance out of
her way before she discovered the omission. The whole town seemed to her
like a dream; the street and the studio at her journey's end were all
that existed for her. And even when she gazed at the world around her,
it refused to take on any reality; the people that were abroad, going
their way and standing out brilliantly in the night wherever a blaze of
light fell upon them, seemed all strangely irrelevant. The only figures
that mattered were her affianced husband and the beautiful, sad woman of
stately presence, whose loveliness and nobility had drawn him from her.
She knew now she hated Lady Lakeden--definitely, terribly. It was
shameful, it was wicked--to hate like that! Lady Lakeden was blameless,
and had not the least idea of all this suffering which her loveliness
had caused to a fellow-woman, and to Wyndham, too. Yet how good it was
to let this mad fury against Lady Lakeden develop in her heart!

She pictured the portrait as standing with its face to the wall,
unobtrusive, even lost, amid the hosts of other canvasses. With what
terrible eagerness she would dart on it, turn it again, and let the
light fall on it! At last she should gaze on the face, should satiate
her consuming curiosity!

At Sloane Square she alighted, deciding to eke out the time by walking
the rest of the distance. As she plunged into the heart of Chelsea, and
was so sensibly near her journey's end, her pulse beat faster, her
breath came irregularly, and again her whole mind was concentrated
vividly on her goal. The streets through which she passed were almost
deserted. The old houses, the gardens, the stretches of brand-new
buildings, the great Hospital itself, were all vague silhouettes; above,
the stars were keen, but her eyes were fixed rigidly before her.

At the corner of Tite Street she stopped to draw breath, for her heart
was now thumping painfully. At the same time she felt almost afraid to
set foot in the street itself. The hesitation was unexpected; she had
imagined herself going straight to the studio, all of the same impulse.
But here a sense of wrong-doing came upon her; the underhandedness of
the whole proceeding stood out in that moment, curiously revealed,
strangely impressive. A strong temptation assailed her to turn, to run
off with all her force, to go back home. Bu