en a day or two of sunlight (the rays through a semi-opaque
atmosphere which London has to accept with gratitude) had announced
that the seven-months' winter was overcome, and when the newspapers
began to speak, after their fashion, of pictures awaiting scrutiny,
Christian exerted himself to rouse his sister from her growing
indolence. He succeeded in taking her to the Academy. Among the works
of sculpture, set apart for the indifference of the public, was a
female head, catalogued as 'A Nihilist'--in itself interesting, and
specially so to Marcella, because it was executed by an artist whose
name she recognised as that of a schoolmate, Agatha Walworth. She spoke
of the circumstance to Christian, and added:

'I should like to have that. Let us go and see the price.'

The work was already sold. Christian, happy that his sister could be
aroused to this interest, suggested that a cast might be obtainable.

'Write to Miss Walworth,' he urged. 'Bring yourself to her
recollection.--I should think she must be the right kind of woman.'

Though at the time she shook her head, Marcella was presently tempted
to address a letter to the artist, who responded with friendly
invitation. In this way a new house was opened to her; but,
simultaneously, one more illusion was destroyed. Knowing little of
life, and much of literature, she pictured Miss Walworth as inhabiting
a delightful Bohemian world, where the rules of conventionalism had no
existence, and everything was judged by the brain-standard. Modern
French biographies supplied all her ideas of studio society. She
prepared herself for the first visit with a joyous tremor, wondering
whether she would be deemed worthy to associate with the men and women
who lived for art. The reality was a shock. In a large house at
Chiswick she found a gathering of most respectable English people,
chatting over the regulation tea-cup; not one of them inclined to
disregard the dictates of Mrs. Grundy in dress, demeanour, or dialogue.
Agatha Walworth lived with her parents and her sisters like any other
irreproachable young woman. She had a nice little studio, and worked at
modelling with a good deal of aptitude; but of Bohemia she knew nothing
whatever, save by hearsay. Her 'Nihilist' was no indication of a
rebellious spirit; some friend had happened to suggest that a certain
female model, a Russian, would do very well for such a character, and
the hint was tolerably well carried out--nothing more