"Will you have tea
with us?"

Fane looked at Mrs Brune and assented. He felt a strange interest in
this man and this woman. The tragedy of their situation appealed to him,
although he lived in a measure by foretelling tragedies. Mrs Brune
touched an electric bell let into the oak-panelled wall, and her husband
drew a big chair forward to the hearth.

As he was about to sit down in it, Gerard Fane's eyes were again
irresistibly drawn towards the statue; and a curious fancy, born,
doubtless, of the twilight that invents spectres and of the firelight
that evokes imaginations, came to him, and made him for a moment hold
his breath.

It seemed to him that the white face menaced him, that the white body
had a soul, and that the soul cried out against him.

His hand trembled on the back of the chair. Then he laughed to himself
at the absurd fancy, and sat down.

"Your husband has been working?" he said to Mrs Brune.

"Yes, all the day. I could not tempt him out for even five minutes. But
then, he has had a holiday, as he says, although it was only a
fortnight. That was not very long for--for a honeymoon."

As she said the last sentence she blushed a little, and shot a swift,
half-tender, half-reproachful glance at her husband. But he did not meet
it; he only looked into the fire, while his brows slightly contracted.

"I think Art owns more than half his soul," the girl said, with the
flash of a smile. "He only gives to me the fortnights and to Art the
years."

There was a vague jealousy in her voice; but then the footman brought in
tea, and she poured it out, talking gaily.

From her conversation, Fane gathered that she had no idea of her
husband's condition. With a curious and fascinating naturalness she
spoke of her marriage, of her intentions for the long future.

"If Reginald is really seedy, Dr Fane," she said, "get him well quickly,
that he may complete his commissions. Because, you know, he has
promised, when they are finished, to take me to Italy, and to Greece, to
the country of Phidias, whose mantle has fallen upon my husband."

"Do not force Dr Fane into untruth," said Brune, with an attempt at a
smile.

"And is that statue a commission?" Fane asked, indicating the marble
figure, that seemed to watch them and to listen.

"No; that is an imaginative work on which I have long been engaged. I
call it, 'A Silent Guardian.'"

"It is very beautiful," the doctor said. "What is your idea exactly?
What i