oked a
much riper and graver man than a year ago. His language was moderate;
he bore himself reservedly, at moments with diffidence. But there was
the old frank cordiality undiminished. To Serena he spoke with the
gentle courtesy which marks a man's behaviour to women when love and
grief dwell together in his heart.

"Our friend Judas?" he said, stepping up to the model. "Finished at
last?"

"Something like it." Glazzard replied, tapping the back of his hand
with a tool.

"Discontented, as usual! I know nothing about this kind of thing, but I
should say it was very good. Makes one uncomfortable--doesn't it, Mrs.
Glazzard? Do something pleasanter next time."

"Precisely what I was saying," fell from Serena.

They talked awhile, and Mrs. Glazzard left the room.

"I want to know your mind on a certain point," said Denzil. "Mrs. Wade
has been asking me to bring her together with your wife and you. Now,
what is your feeling?"

The other stood in hesitation, but his features expressed no pleasure.

"What is _your_ feeling?" he asked, in return.

"Why, to tell you the truth, I can't advise you to make a friend of
her. I'm sorry to say she has got into a very morbid state of mind. I
see more of her than I care to. She has taken up with a lot of people I
don't like--rampant women--extremists of many kinds. There's only one
thing: it's perhaps my duty to try and get her into a more sober way of
life, and if all steady-going people reject her----Still, I don't think
either you or your wife would like to have her constantly coming here."

"I think not," said Glazzard, with averted face.

"Well, I shall tell her that she would find you very unsympathetic. I'm
sorry for her; I wish she could recover a healthy mind."

He brooded for a moment, and the lines that came into his face gave it
an expression of unrest and melancholy out of keeping with its natural
tone.

In a few minutes he was gone, and presently Serena returned to the
studio. She found her husband in a dark reverie, a mood to which he
often yielded, which she always did her best to banish.

"Do you think, Eustace," she asked, "that Mr. Quarrier will marry
again?"

"Oh, some day, of course."

"I shall be sorry. There's something I have often meant to tell you
about his wife; I will now."

He looked up attentively. Serena had never been admitted to his
confidence regarding Lilian's story; to her, the suicide was merely a
woful result of disordered heal