once to the studio.

But first she lighted the hall lamp. Now that she was here she intended
to take possession openly, as was her right. If he should come back
suddenly, he at least should not imagine that she was there in secret.
But the cunning of the reasoning gave her a twinge of shame; she knew
that she was throwing dust in her own eyes in thus spouting of her
right. Admit at once that this liberal illumination was a piece of
craft, was intended to maintain the surface of innocence that was the
cover for woman's guile from time immemorial. Well, so be it! She had
been a child all her life. If perhaps she had been less truly innocent,
even she might have kept the man who had slipped from her. She was
graduating in womanhood now; how splendid it was to be unscrupulous, to
do absolutely what you wished, yet skilfully maintain the blind belief
and confidence of those you tricked! What great power, what joy could be
gathered for yourself that way! Yes, that was the only thing for woman
in this world; otherwise she was left to rot!

And, as if to emphasise the conviction, she deliberately lighted a
second spare lamp that stood in the hall, so that the spaces were
illumined resplendently. Then she mounted the flight of stairs, letting
her hand trail along the graceful sweep of balustrade, and pushed open
the door of the studio.

Peering into the darkness, her eyes at first could distinguish nothing
save the objects in the spaces near her, as some of the light flowed up
from below. But presently she was able to distinguish the familiar
furniture, and cautiously felt her way across to the mantelpiece. Soon
two powerful lamps were in full flame, and she sat down again to rest
for a minute, whilst her eyes wandered round seeking for the portrait
that was the object of her pilgrimage. She did not remove her coat and
wraps, although, spacious as the room was, the atmosphere felt
oppressive and the slow fire, banked up with ashes, seemed to give out
an immense heat. Yet she felt singularly at leisure, in full possession
of her purpose.

Obviously Lady Lakeden's portrait was not on any of the easels; nor
could she distinguish any fresh unit amid these many canvasses, all
individually familiar to her--like a card-sharper, she could identify
any one of them immediately from its apparently featureless back. Her
first feeling was one of astonished disappointment, and she rose now,
ready to institute a closer search. The possibi