er!" she thought, as she turned round.

"Do sit down by the fire," she said to Rosamund, who was standing near
the writing-table immediately under a large engraving of "Wedded."

She wished ardently that Rosamund wore the ordinary clothes of a
well-dressed woman of the world. The religious panoply of the "sister's"
attire, with its suggestion of a community apart, got on her nerves, and
seemed to make things more difficult.

Rosamund went to a chair and sat down. She still looked very cold, but
she succeeded in looking serene, and her eyes, unworldly and pure, did
not fall before Lady Ingleton's.

Lady Ingleton sat down near her and immediately realized that she had
placed herself exactly opposite to "Wedded." She turned her eyes away
from the large nude arms of the bending man and met Rosamund's gaze
fixed steadily upon her. That gaze told her not to delay, but to go
straight to the tragic business which had brought her to Liverpool.

"You know of course that my husband is Ambassador at Constantinople,"
she began.

"Yes," said Rosamund.

"You and I met--at least we were in the same room once--at Tippie
Chetwinde's," said Lady Ingleton, almost pleading with her visitor. "I
heard you sing."

"Yes, I remember. I told Father Robertson so."

"I dare say you think it very strange my coming here in this way."

In spite of the strong effort of her will Lady Ingleton was feeling with
every moment more painfully embarrassed. All her code was absolutely
against mixing in the private concerns of others uninvited. She had a
sort of delicate hatred of curiosity. She longed to prove to the woman
by the fire that she was wholly incurious now, wholly free from the
taint of sordid vulgarity that clings to the social busybody.

"I've done it solely because I'm very sorry for some one," she
continued; "because I'm very sorry for your husband."

She looked away from Rosamund, and again her eyes rested on the
engraving of "Wedded." The large bare arms of the man, his bending,
amorous head, almost hypnotized her. She disliked the picture of
which this was a reproduction. Far too many people had liked it; their
affection seemed to her to have been destructive, to have destroyed any
value it had formerly had. Yet now, as she looked almost in despite of
herself, suddenly she saw through the engraving, through the symbol,
to something beyond; to the prompting conception in the painter's mind
which had led to the picture, to the gre