lity of being baulked of
her purpose stirred a sudden rage in her. She no longer knew herself. "I
am mad--mad," was the thought that echoed through her brain. "But if I
am," she reasoned grimly, "my sufferings all these weeks have made me
so. I would sooner die than endure this all over again." Then she set
about examining all the canvasses, turning them one after the other to
the light, in the vain hope that her too accurate knowledge of them
might prove in some instance mistaken. But in vain! Was it possible that
the portrait was already on its way to Paris?

But wait, was there anything behind the screen so carelessly sprawling
in the corner there under the great window? In a moment she had dashed
across, and had half-dragged, half-flung it out of its place. Ah! she
could almost have screamed with fury at Wyndham's cautious
foresight--this unmistakable provision against an accidental visit from
her. It was then true; definitely, absolutely true! The man whom she
loved to madness, who had professed to love her for herself alone,
belonged heart and soul to another woman!

A mist palpitated in the air before her, and the gold foliage and
convolutions of the ornate Venetian frame shone through it distorted and
terrible. But the canvas itself was a vague blur to her. She staggered
over to the nearer lamp and bore it over to the corner, kneeling so as
to bring the light full on the picture and her own face opposite Lady
Lakeden's. And as now she saw this rare princess, bathed in a mystic
light, this figure, full of a sweet dignity and a stately grace; as her
eyes rested on the girlish face whose character yet shone out in a
splendid illumination, though the rounded, youthful features were free
from any stamp that might have touched the bloom of their spring-tide
beauty, a cruel knife worked in Alice's heart, a knife that seared as
well as stabbed. For a long minute she gazed at the portrait, letting it
burn itself on her vision in its every shade and detail--the fresh sheen
on the hair, the proud yet sweet tilt of the face, the wonderfully fresh
and deep violet-grey eyes, the veritable rose-bud mouth that was yet so
firm and true! This, then, was her rival! How could she, the plainest
of the plain, hope to struggle against the irresistible might of this
loveliness! A sense of absolute defeat, of complete hopelessness invaded
her whole being; it was the same submissive acquiescence with which she
had contemplated herself i