Ardagh spoke of Jenny Levita. It seemed that she had now fallen
into an evil way of life.

"But why should you attribute the folly of a weak girl to William
Foster's influence?" said Berrand.

"Her soul was trembling in the balance," said Mrs. Ardagh, striking her
thin hand excitedly on the table. "That book turned the scale. She went
down. Tell him of her, Mr. Berrand, tell him of the ruin of that poor
child. It may influence him."

"I'm afraid not," said Berrand, with a glance at Mark. "William Foster
is an artist."

"It is terrible that he should be permitted to work such evil," said
Mrs. Ardagh.

During that summer a vague and hollow darkness seemed to brood round the
life of Catherine. It stood behind the glory of the golden days. She
felt night even at noontide, and a damp mist floated mysteriously to her
out of the very heart of the sun. Yet she had some happy, or at least
some feverishly excited, moments, for Berrand was generally staying with
them, and Catherine--abnormally sensitive as she always was to her
undoing,--came under his curious influence and caught some of his
enthusiasm for the talent of "William Foster."

Once again Mark began to speak to her of his work, to read parts of it
aloud to both his companions. And there were evenings when Catherine,
carried away by the intellectual joy of the two men, exulted with them
in the horrible fascination of the book and in the intensity of its
dramatic force. But, when these moments were over, and she was gone, she
brooded darkly over her mother's words. For she knew that the book was
evil. Like a snake it carried poison with it, and, presently, it was
going to carry that poison out from this house in the woods, out into
the world. Ah! the poor world, on which a thousand things preyed, in
which a thousand snakes set their poisoned fangs!

And then she wept. Mark and Berrand were eagerly talking of the snake,
praising its lustrous skin, marvelling at its jewelled eyes, foretelling
its lithe progress through Society. She heard the murmur of their voices
until far into the night. And sometimes she thought that distant murmur
sounded like the hum of evil, or like the furtive whisper of
conspirators.

Berrand did not leave them until the new book was nearly finished. As he
pressed Catherine's hand in farewell he said,

"You will have a sensational autumn, Mrs. Sirrett."

"Sensational. Why?" she asked.

"London will ring with William Foster's name. My