otion of myself. I choose my words carefully; you must
not imagine that there was more in either his feeling or mine than what
I express. But it did not last more than six months. Then he grew tired
of it. I still did my utmost; believe that I did, Mrs. Spence, for it
is indeed true. I made every effort in my power to prevent what I knew
was threatening. Until he began to practise deceit, trickery of every
kind. What more could I do? If he was determined to deceive me, he
would do so; what was gained by my obliging him to exert more cunning?
Then I turned sick at heart, and the end came."

"But, Cecily," said Eleanor, "how can the end be yet?"

"You mean that he will once more wish to return."

"Once more, or twenty times more."

"I know; but--"

She broke off, and Eleanor did not press her to continue.

It was not long before the news reached Miriam. In a few days Eleanor
paid one of her accustomed visits to a little house out at Roehampton,
externally cold and bare enough in these days of November, but inwardly
rich with whatsoever the heart or brain can desire. Hither came no
payers of formal calls, no leavers of cards, no pests from the humdrum
world to open their mouths and utter foolishness. It was a dwelling
sacred to love and art, and none were welcome across its threshold save
those to whom the consecration was of vital significance. To Eleanor
the air seemed purer than that of any other house she entered; to
breathe it made her heart beat more hopefully, gave her a keener relish
of life.

Mallard was absent to-day, held by business in London. The visitor had,
for once, no wish to await his return. She sat for an hour by the
fireside, and told what she had to tell; then took her leave.

When the artist entered, Miriam was waiting for him by the light of the
fire; blinds shut out the miserable gloaming, but no lamp had yet been
brought into the room. Mallard came in blowing the fog and rain off his
moustache; he kicked off his boots, kicked on his slippers, and then
bent down over the chair to the face raised in expectancy.

"A damnable day, Miriam, in the strict and sober sense of the word."

"Far too sober," she replied. "Eleanor came through it, however."

"Wonderful woman! Did she come to see if you bore it with the
philosophy she approves?"

"She had a more serious purpose, I'm sorry to say, Cecily is in London,
He has left her--written her a good-bye."

Mallard leaned upon the mantelpiece, a