CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5042.L6 1922 
 
 Lewis Seymour and some women, 
 
 3 1924 013 526 524 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013526524 
 
LEWIS SEYMOUR AND SOME 
 WOMEN 
 
 Volume I 
 
 THE CARRA EDITION 
 
 THE COLLECTED WORKS OF 
 
 GEORGE MOORE 
 
LEWIS SEYMOUR 
 and SOME WOMEN 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MOORE 
 
 Carra Edition 
 / 
 
 PRINTED FOR SUBSCRIBERS ONLY BY 
 
 BONI AND LIVERIGHT, Inc., NEW YORK 
 
 1922 
 
LEWIS SEYMOUR AND SOME 
 WOMEN 
 
 (Carra Edition) 
 
 Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's. 
 
 Copyright 1922 by 
 
 Boni & Liveright, Inc. 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
EPISTLE DEDICATORY 
 
 TO 
 
 THOMAS RUTTLEDGE 
 
 OF 
 
 WESTPORT, COUNTY MAYO. 
 
 My Dear Tom, 
 
 You will begin to receive the Carra Edition in Octo- 
 ber, begotten almost as much, of your management of 
 my property as of my modesty. So prepare your- 
 selves. 
 
 Always affectionately yours, 
 
 GEORGE MOORE. 
 
This edition consists of 1000 numbered sett 
 of twenty-one volumes each. The first vol- 
 ume is numbered, and signed by the author. 
 
 <;y r : o 
 This set is No C. »...,,. 
 
APOLOGIA PRO SCRIPTIS MEIS 
 
 When I say that it may be doubted if any English 
 ■writer owes as much to his American readers as I do, 
 I am not thinking of the Carra edition but of the instinc- 
 tive and spontaneous appreciation of my books which 
 began in America with the publication of Confessions of a 
 Young Man, a book written some thirty years ago ; Amer- 
 ica was forthcoming when England lagged, and that my 
 readers beyond may know how valuable their help was, 
 coming at a time when I was almost without readers 
 in England, I append to this little exordium of thanks 
 the vera historia of the literary struggle I have been 
 engaged in for the last forty years. 
 
 It was in the beginning of 1880 that a letter came to the 
 rue de la Tour des Dames telling me that I must return 
 to Ireland at once and seek another agent, the reason given 
 by Joe Blake for relinquishing his charge being that owing 
 to the disturbed state of the country he could no longer 
 collect my rents. Joe Blake was a near relative, my 
 mother's brother, and for that was appointed agent at my 
 father's death. I had confirmed the appointment when I 
 came of age, and Joe Blake had supplied me with money 
 from the day I started forth to study art in Paris accom- 
 panied by an old family servant, William Maloney, with 
 whom Parisian life found so little favour that he begged 
 to be allowed to leave my service at the end of the year. 
 He missed his beer and music-halls, and to let him go 
 seemed the only way to rid myself of his censorship of 
 my ambition, which was nothing less than a complete 
 remoulding of myself inwardly and outwardly. I wished 
 to think, to speak and to dress like a Frenchman, but was 
 
shamefaced before my valet and continued to wear Eng- 
 lish clothes as long as he was with me. But when he left 
 my orders were given to a French tailor ; I grew a Capoul 
 beard, curled my hair and wore exaggerated collars and 
 neckties, achieving in a few years such a change in my 
 appearance that William Maloney would have passed me 
 in the street without recognising me, and would certainly 
 have declined to re-enter my service if I had proposed to 
 re-engage him. It would have been a point of honour with 
 him to refuse to brush the clothes I wore, and he could 
 not have kept back some contemptuous words about 
 my hat; he might have spoken of it as one only fit for my 
 sister to wear when she went out riding. I had not thought 
 of William Maloney for several years, but he was again 
 in my thoughts, a great rough Irishman whom I easily 
 imagined contented in Joe Blake's service in Ballin- 
 fad, having the horses to think about and a meet- 
 ing at the Curragh to look forward to. Whether he 
 had gone to Ballinfad or into service in London I did not 
 know, nor did it matter; I was thinking of him only be- 
 cause he and Joe Blake represented all that I had tried 
 to escape from — language, religion, ideas. But the past 
 had returned; it had laid hands upon me and would soon 
 undo the work I had done on myself. I shall be 
 as I was, I cried. My evenings in the Nouvelle Athene* 
 are over, never to be resumed; my afternoons in Manet's 
 studio in the rue Amsterdam; my visits to Degas in the 
 rue Fontaine; everything is over. And catching sight at 
 that moment of Manet's portrait of my Polish mistress, I 
 began to ask myself : In whose shop will she hang and what 
 manner of man will buy her? I will run away, leaving 
 everything to be sold, and if I answer no letters Paris 
 will dissolve like a dream; I shall never know how much 
 my tables and chairs and pictures fetched at the sale. 
 Let them go, let them go — I belong to Paris no longer. 
 
In Confessions of a Young Man I have told of the 
 almost hysterical grief with which I watched the water 
 widening hetween me and the shores of the country where 
 my youth was spent, and if I tell it again it is because a 
 story-teller is like an acrobat in this much: he needs a 
 spring-board. Joe's letter was an excellent one; but I 
 need not trouble the reader with an account of my meeting 
 with Joe in Dublin; sufficient to say that I signed his ac- 
 counts, though my solicitor begged me not to sign them. 
 The literary life is inveterate in me and I was prepared 
 to make any monetary sacrifices to escape from money, 
 an aversion that would have easily led me to my ruin if I 
 had not met Tom Ruttledge in Cornfield and entrusted the 
 management of my affairs to him. In these he was suc- 
 cessful from the first, proposing a reduction in rent to the 
 tenants which they accepted, and still more important was 
 his discovery of a timber merchant who paid five hundred 
 pounds for the thinning of the woods, a sum of money on 
 which I was to live in London for two years at least, 
 creeping back all the while into English life and thought ; 
 wearing loosely, I said, the skin that I grew in Paris, or 
 sloughing it and joining affinity with my original self. 
 " But can we return to ourselves ? " I asked and laid aside 
 the thought petulantly, it seeming certain that the concern 
 of the year was to banish faith for ever in Irish land and 
 get my living in journalism. Thereat I fell to considering 
 my chances, viewing almost aggressively the book of verses 
 I had published whilst in Paris; Martin Luther, a drama 
 in five acts in blank verse; and another volume of poems, 
 the proofs of which I had in my pocket. Books that had 
 to be paid for were out of my present humour, and my 
 hopes set on a single poem which had found an admirer 
 in the editor of the Spectator, who wrote to thank me 
 for it, expressing even a wish to see me when I came to 
 
London. As Mr. Hutton knew nothing of my long ac- 
 quaintance with Montmartre he looked upon the stanza : — 
 
 The rose of the past is better 
 
 Than the rose we ravish to-day; 
 
 'Tia holier, purer and fitter 
 
 To place on the shrine where we pray 
 
 To the secret thoughts we obey, 
 
 as being suffused with Celtic genius, and gave me a volume 
 of Swinburne to review for him, a task that I achieved with 
 only moderate success. He gave me other books and I 
 did my best with them, my best, however, leaving a feeling 
 in my mind that my articles were draggle-tailed; and I 
 wondered how it was everybody could produce evenly 
 written copy, though he might be my inferior intel- 
 lectually. I was only sure of myself in verse, and 
 one day a friend at the corner of Wellington Street and 
 the Strand asked me if I believed myself destined 
 to increase the volume of English poetry. He did not 
 intend to affront me, nor did he; I was even grateful to 
 him for his bluntness, for it helped me to make up my 
 mind, not a difficult thing to do for I had begun to hear 
 myself called to story-telling; and the burden of poetry 
 being discharged I applied myself to the shaping of a 
 novel to be called A Modern Lover, turning it over in 
 my mind till one day it took shape suddenly as I left 
 the Gaiety Bar by the swing doors leading into Catherine 
 Street, to which delightful surprise was added the con- 
 viction, not less delightful, that I had found at last my 
 real business in life: I was a tale-teller. 
 
 He has broken into his last sovereign, I said to myself 
 on my way to Cecil Street, and the dealer who has just 
 refused to buy another sketch sends his shopman after him 
 with an order for a decorative panel representing Venus 
 rising from the sea. But Lewis cannot draw except from 
 
XV 
 
 the model, and having no money to pay for one he speaks 
 of suicide to a modest young Methodist who lives in the 
 house; and when he brings the decorative panel to the 
 dealer's shop he is asked to wait, the dealer being at that 
 moment engaged with a customer. And it so happens that 
 the customer has come to ask the dealer if he can 
 recommend an artist to decorate her ballroom. The dealer 
 is fortunately able to supply the young man she is dream- 
 ing of; and when the ballroom is finished, Mrs. Bentham 
 buys his pictures and persuades her friends to sit to him 
 for their portraits. And then? This story will run on 
 for about ten years, and in ten years the time will have 
 come to bring in a young woman, Lady Helen, mayhap, 
 who remembers having met Lewis at the tennis party in 
 Sussex. Her family is opposed to the marriage, but Lady 
 Helen will not give way, and once they are married, the 
 family have to get him portraits; and in the end, by a 
 cunningly devised entanglement of circumstance, the 
 three workers have an opportunity of appreciating the 
 artist they have brought into being, which they do ac- 
 cording to their different lights. 
 
 As I ran upstairs the story of Lewis Seymour con- 
 tinued to shape itself in my mind, and when the wretched 
 text came back to me from Mr. Bentley my hopes drifted 
 on to Mr. Tinsley, who, however, found himself unable to 
 undertake the publication of A Modern Lover unless I 
 agreed to pay him his losses up to forty pounds, a large 
 sum, so I thought, for a man to lose who could reckon only 
 upon the five hundred pounds he had gotten for his trees, 
 the rather as no more money would come out of Irish land. 
 All the same, I signed, and whilst the proofs were under- 
 going correction the thought of having to draw a cheque 
 instead of receiving one began to frighten me; but my 
 fears gave way and almost disappeared, so favourable 
 were the notices of the book, till one day I left Cecil 
 
Street for Catherine Street with the intention of hearten- 
 ing Mr. Tinsley by reading him the review that had 
 appeared that morning in The Spectator. But he seemed 
 lost in despondency of all shapes and sizes as he sat at 
 his bureau, and waving aside the review as something of 
 no importance he told me that Mudie had taken only fifty 
 copies and Smith twenty-five, which meant that sooner or 
 later he would call upon me to pay my debt, and being, 
 like every other man, a mixture of cowardice and courage, 
 regret entered my soul that I had not delayed my cam- 
 paign against Mudie and Smith till I had made my position 
 secure in English letters. The thought was accompanied 
 by another : that if I had delayed and written books in the 
 tradition that Messrs. Mudie and Smith had imposed upon 
 English letters, I should have become part and parcel 
 of Mudie and Smith and would be unable to withstand 
 them. I must break in here to tell that I had already 
 begun to look upon the freeing of English fiction from 
 the apron strings of Mudie and Smith as my job; for its 
 quick accomplishment it would have been better that they 
 had not discovered their enemy so quickly. But what 
 mischief had been done could not be undone, and 
 the struggle that had begun sooner than I wished for, 
 sooner than I expected, would have to be continued 
 by me unintermittently, and in my way and in no other, for 
 I could not change myself. And whilst these thoughts, or 
 something like them, were passing through my mind Mr. 
 Tinsley sat in his armchair, the very type of the middle- 
 class tradesman, a basket of fish behind him which he was 
 taking home to the family in the suburbs. In which 
 suburb I did not know, and it vexed me to find my thoughts 
 straying into such an unimportant question. " Mr. Tins- 
 ley," I said, " I suppose you have read the reviews of 
 A Modern Lover, every one of which is complimentary ? " 
 
xvii 
 
 and I handed him the two-column article that The Spec- 
 tator had printed that week and tried to persuade him 
 that it would save the book. But he answered with 
 truth that no number of articles could save a three-vol- 
 ume novel if the libraries did not subscribe freely and 
 circulate it. " Then why not break the libraries by 
 publishing at a popular price ? " I asked. " I could 
 not have sold your novels at six shillings," he replied, 
 " nor at three-and-sixpence, nor at any other price, for 
 Smith owns all the bookstalls and what he will not cir- 
 culate he will not sell " : an answer that revealed to me 
 the bastions of the fortresses I had undertaken in rash 
 haste to storm. But something had to be done, and on 
 leaving Mr. Tinsley's office I looked round for a hansom 
 and drove to the library in Oxford Street absorbed in the 
 fear that Mr. Mudie might refuse to see me. 
 
 " I have called to see Mr. Mudie." The attendant at the 
 counter said he would take up my name, and I paced the 
 waiting-room till a dull, almost lifeless, thick-set, middle- 
 aged man entered. I knew that I should make no impres- 
 sion on him, but we were face to face and I began to speak 
 all I could remember of Zola's Roman Experimental, to 
 which he gave a stupid, listless ear. It may be as well 
 to say here that lie dropped a few years later into lunacy, 
 and I almost became aware of his impending end when he 
 put forward the suggestion that I should take Trollope 
 for my model. " I will wreck this big house of yours, Mr. 
 Mudie ! " I cried, and seeing me look round the room, and 
 judging me to be measuring the strength of the architec- 
 ture, a faint smile lighted up his face for a moment, and I 
 bean to ask myself if other authors had threatened him 
 before. " My next novel will be issued at a popular price," 
 I cried; " I will appeal to the public." To which he an- 
 swered that popular prices would suit his business better 
 than the conventional three-volume novel, price thirty- 
 
one-and-six ; and I left his emporium to start a few days 
 afterwards for Ireland to write A Mummer's Wife 
 in dear Edward's Galway castle. The story that pos- 
 sessed me this time was a better one than A Modern 
 Lover. I was thinking of a soft, sentimental woman 
 of the lower middle class, to whose house the manager of 
 a travelling opera comes in search of lodgings and whom 
 the mummer carries out of a world of work into one of 
 pleasure and excitement; a story of decline and fall, with 
 this inference for philosophy: that to change our circum- 
 stance is to change a good many of our ideas. 
 
 My new publisher, Henry Vizetelly, of whom I would 
 speak here if I had not spoken out my mind concerning 
 him in Avowals, seemed impressed by my description of 
 the book. And remember, I continued, " that though 
 adultery is as frequent in England as in any other coun- 
 try, our literary convention is that the people of novels 
 are chaste and never miss church, and any violation of 
 this code will assuredly cause the book to be banned by 
 the libraries. Our appeal must be made to the common- 
 sense of the country; we must publish at a popular 
 price." And opening my manuscript I drew his atten- 
 tion to Kate Ede's enjoyment of every hour of her 
 new life, especially of the long talks before turning 
 into bed and the morning stirrings in a room already warm 
 with sunlight. " Never," I said, " will Mudie and Smith 
 circulate a book in which a man is represented living in 
 lodgings with a woman who is not his wife; remember the 
 subterfuges that Thackeray had to stoop to, and the many 
 books that have been written to prove that Becky never 
 side-stepped." " But you tell me your book is soberly 
 written," interjected Henry Vizetelly. " Be that as it may, 
 Mudie and Smith will take objection to it and gain credit 
 for so doing," I answered: a prediction that came to pass, 
 despite the fact that the book was earnestly acclaimed 
 
by the entire Press. But Mudie and Smith were auto- 
 crats and stood shoulder to shoulder, never allowing a copy 
 into the library or upon the bookstalls, and it was to out- 
 wit them that I arranged for my next book, Muslin, to 
 appear in a newspaper, saying to myself : " Smith will not 
 dare to ban a newspaper, and if he does not refuse to sell 
 The Court and Society Review on his bookstalls, his libra- 
 rian can hardly refuse to admit the book into the library." 
 It was with this argument in my head that I called upon 
 Mr. Faux, who answered that the gentleman in 
 charge of the stalls sold what he liked, and that he, 
 Mr. Faux, being in charge of the library, distributed what 
 he liked. " But will you tell me, Mr. Faux, what your 
 objection is to Muslin? " Mr. Faux answered that the 
 character of Alice Barton represented part of his ob- 
 jection to the story, saying: "She does not believe in 
 
 the divinity of our Lord and refuses to go to church " 
 
 " But her character is exemplary," I interjected. " Quite 
 so," he replied ; " but there is a girl in your book who 
 has a baby, an unmarried girl who is a believing Chris- 
 tian. Your point, I suppose, is that religious teaching is 
 worse than useless ; a view which I do not think would be 
 accepted by the majority of the subscribers to our li- 
 brary." And then his tone changing from grave to gay, 
 he began to gossip about the books he had banned, telling 
 indecent stories to which I listened in amazement, it 
 seeming to me strange that a man's private life should 
 differ from his public. I heard afterwards that publishers 
 collected indecent stories for his amusement and that if 
 he had not heard them before, they were rewarded with 
 large orders. And recalling this interview to my remem- 
 brance, I can see in my thoughts, and distinctly, a tall, 
 thin, sallow, unhealthy-looking man, with a large mouth 
 full of shaky false teeth, a bald crown covered with 
 
faded hair, ambiguous blue eyes that lighted up 
 when certain words were pronounced, and a name in 
 accordance with his character: Faux; he pronounced it 
 Fox, thereby trying vainly to escape from the by-name 
 that some original French ancestor had earned for quali- 
 ties which an inexorable law had transmitted to his 
 descendant of 1880. 
 
 My next book was Confessions of a Young Man, and 
 the excuse that Mr. Faux gave for banning it was that 
 Mr. Wilson Barrett, an actor of some celebrity in those 
 days, was spoken of as playing to the gallery, but as my 
 books continued to be received with favour the prejudice 
 that Mudie and Smith had stirred up against me was 
 beginning to decline, the twain being looked upon as stupid 
 fellows ; and I can only think it was the despair caused by 
 finding himself obliged to refuse to supply a book that 
 everybody wanted to read that provoked Mr. Faux to take 
 the Press into his confidence, for one day when a reporter 
 came to ask him to give his reasons for banning Esther 
 Waters, he answered: "For certain pre-Raphaelite nasti- 
 ness that Mr. Moore cannot keep out of his writings " ; an 
 answer that counsel would be puzzled to justify, so 
 I was told, and was pressed to begin an action. Smith 
 will not allow the case to go into Court ; he will apologise 
 and pay. But I could not be persuaded, though the 
 pleasure of interrogating Mr. Faux in the witness-box 
 tempted me; instead of a lawyer I called in an ac- 
 countant who, after checking the sales and reck- 
 oning the rebate that Smith's monopoly allows him 
 to ask and get, sent in a report that Smith had lost 
 probably fifteen hundred pounds by refusing to deal in 
 Esther Waters. It was after the publication of these 
 figures that I had the satisfaction of hearing that the 
 partners of the firm, whilst congratulating themselves at 
 having escaped a mulct in damages, sent word to their 
 
xxi 
 
 librarian that it would be well in the future to avoid heavy 
 losses by banning books, especially books that Mr. Glad- 
 stone was likely to read and to express his approval of in 
 The Westminster Gazette. 
 
 Till the publication of Esther Waters I had lived in a 
 small corner of the Temple, giving two days of the week 
 to writing articles. Modern Painting was written on Tues- 
 days for The Speaker, a newspaper that represented the 
 liberalism of the 'nineties, and every evening I went 
 forth, usually alone, to spend three or four shillings in one 
 of the City inns, The Cock, The Rainbow, or The Cheshire 
 Cheese. A hard, industrious life mine was for many 
 years, one that astonished Thomas Ruttledge, who called 
 at 8, King's Bench Walk one hot summer day and found 
 me writing in my shirt-sleeves. It came to my ears 
 some months afterwards that Tom had said he had never 
 known anybody so frugal as George, an appreciation that 
 surprised me, for I was not aware that my conduct was 
 exceptional. A man on an errand is conscious of little 
 else, and it was not for weariness of a strait life 
 that I left the Temple to live in a commodious flat in 
 Victoria Street, where I could keep servants, but in the 
 hope that easier conditions of life would enable me to 
 accomplish the overthrow of Mudie and Smith, whom I 
 identified with the slavery of English literature. Zola 
 had often told me that the libraries would give way as soon 
 as the demand for my books compelled them to do so, 
 and not before. " Mudie has surrendered to Esther Wa- 
 ters," I said, " and Smith will hold up his hands at 
 the next book if it be a success." But the thought 
 of writing popular literature was repugnant to me, and 
 I sat asking myself which I would choose: a great work 
 of art or the freedom of literature. The answer came: 
 for a great work of art I would consent that Mudie and 
 Smith should live, yes, and thrive. And amused at my 
 
xxii 
 
 own wantonness I continued the composition of Sister 
 Teresa to succumb very soon to a temptation more malig- 
 nant than the first, for after hearing Yeats and dear 
 Edward talking continually of a Celtic Renaissance, it 
 had come to be believed by me that the English language 
 was threadbare, falling to pieces like an old coat, and 
 soiled with wear; and I began to dream of exchanging 
 my lot, the overthrow of Mudie and Smith, for the re- 
 vival of an old language that too frequent child-bearing 
 had not over-worn. 
 
 We play with a thought as with a snake; it coils and 
 uncoils, a seemingly harmless thing, till suddenly its coils 
 tighten and we are overcome. I sold my flat in Victoria 
 Street, and often stopped in my walks in Dublin to ask 
 myself if it were the destiny of the Irish language to 
 bring forth a new literature. But the struggle of the 
 artist with the patriot could end only in the overthrow 
 of the patriot, and whosoever would read the story of the 
 match can do so in the volumes entitled Hail and Fare- 
 well. For me to remember that there was a struggle 
 is enough for the purpose of this apologia, and 
 I return to Evelyn Innes and Sister Teresa, to tell how 
 after altering these books in every edition, Continental, 
 English and American, I came suddenly into a resolution 
 to rewrite them from the first pages to the last, thereby 
 wasting two years, for the new versions disappointed 
 me as soon as they were printed, which is strange, for 
 I excel in corrections, and the only explanation I can 
 give of my failure is that a superficial subject had 
 better be written superficially. Be this as it may, 
 Evelyn left me no peace; she continued to intrude 
 herself upon me during the whole of my stay in Ireland, 
 claiming my attention for some new aspect of her char- 
 acter, without, however, persuading me to follow her 
 again; and it was in the hope of ridding myself of her 
 that I refused all proposals for a collected edition that 
 
XX111 
 
 included the two books, whereupon publishers withdrew 
 from a proposition which, in their own words, was not a 
 practical one. Even if these books were left out, I said 
 to myself, there would be a hiatus which I should feel, 
 and if, after all, the public should prove right! 
 
 It was about a year ago that Mr. Liveright wrote 
 to me about the collected edition, and when he came to see 
 me in London he demanded not only Evelyn Innes but a 
 number of trivial books and a long list of short stories and 
 articles. " But even if all that your industry could dis- 
 cover from ancient files of newspapers were published," I 
 said to him, " a great deal would still remain uncollected." 
 Mr. Liveright bowed before my argument, which indeed 
 was unanswerable, and so did my old friend, Mr. Edmund 
 Gosse, to whom I went at the end of the week. Mr. Gosse 
 answered me: "You are quite Tight to reject certain 
 volumes as casual and unrepresentative, but since you ask 
 me, I do not think that it is possible for you to omit 
 Evelyn Innes and Sister Teresa, for they form a large 
 part of your literary thought and development. You asked 
 
 for my opinion " And feeling myself pressed from 
 
 every side, I said: "My dear Gosse, when I ask you for 
 an opinion it is to take it. To-morrow I will sign an 
 agreement with Mr. Liveright for twenty volumes, and the 
 agreement shall not only include the two volumes, Evelyn 
 Innes and Sister Teresa, but I promise you that they 
 shall be published from the original editions, without the 
 alteration of a comma. After all, the public liked them 
 in their first versions, and as I do not like them in any 
 of the versions it is better that somebody should be 
 pleased. I think that is reasonable. Everything comes 
 to pass if one lives long enough, and here am I accepting 
 public opinion about a book. It is true, Gosse, that you 
 have made yourself the spokesman of it, else I should 
 have listened contemptuously, and I shall make you pub- 
 
licly responsible for the inclusion of these two books into 
 the canon." " My dear Moore, you have not changed your 
 mind; you have merely conceded a point, that is all." "Les 
 Concessions d'un Enfant du Steele," I answered plain- 
 tively, and Gosse began to improvise an amusing book, till 
 breaking off suddenly, tired of the joke, he asked me if I 
 thought of omitting any of the books I had written in 
 Ireland ; and I answered him that I was particularly satis- 
 fied with the books I had written in Ireland, Ireland hav- 
 ing thrown me back upon primitive people. " Among 
 whom your talent is more at home than among the 
 cultured," he interjected. " The Untilled Field" I said, 
 " came out of my memories of the peasants that col- 
 lected about Moore Hall ; " and we discussed the advis- 
 ability of publishing The Lake in the same volume, 
 both having come out of the same inspiration. But 
 I am repeating or paraphrasing what has al- 
 ready been said in the preface to the new edition of 
 The Lake; and of the three volumes of autobiography 
 entitled Hail and Farewell I can only say that whilst 
 writing these books I dreamed the Syrian story conceived 
 from end to end in a five-minutes' conversation with W. K. 
 Magee in the National Library, trying it in the form 
 of a play so that I might save myself the tedium of a long 
 journey to Palestine, it becoming plain to me at last that 
 the story could not be written even in the form of a play 
 without my seeing the country. " You have been wish- 
 ing," a wise friend said to me, " to write this book for 
 years; go to Palestine; the season is coming in for the 
 journey." I think she uttered a warning that the journey 
 would become more difficult to me every year, and I owe 
 to her The Brook Kerith, for January 1914 was the last 
 possible moment for me to visit Palestine, whence I re- 
 turned in May (two months before the War), the long 
 ride through the desert from Jerusalem to the desolate 
 
xxv 
 
 shores of the Dead Sea, and the longer ride from Jerusa- 
 lem to the harp-shapen lake in the north, having set my 
 stoiy flowing, here a trickle, there a pool, with suddenly a 
 cascade of story from the face of the high rock. A pre- 
 tentious imagery, I fear, but a true one, for during my 
 journey home and the fifteen months that I spent writing 
 The Brook Kerith, the story continued to pour into my 
 mind without interruption, the incident that I could not 
 find in the evening revealing itself to me in the morning, 
 and so on and so on till the last proofs were corrected, 
 without, however, attaining the language I had in mind, 
 neither an archaic nor a modern language; for this I had 
 to wait for the Carra edition. Of course mistakes can be 
 discovered always if sought, and on this note of warning I 
 turn from textual revisions to the fright the book caused, 
 the absence of the usual ringlets that Jesus had worn, from 
 Diirer to Holman Hunt, stampeding the critics. Again and 
 again the book was returned to the editors who had sent it 
 out. It would seem that the critics had expected something 
 of the eighteenth-century abbe that Eenan painted from 
 himself in the looking-glass with some remembrances of his 
 sister Henrietta, and it was noised in Fleet Street that 
 the Jesus of The Brook Kerith was a beggar-man that 
 Joseph met by the lake shores hurrying to Capernaum 
 to Peter's house, in which he lodged. Peter's lodger — 
 what a profanation ! But a way out had to be discovered, 
 and that is why eulogies were printed of the opening 
 chapters, with many regrets that Mr. Moore was not able 
 to continue the book as he began it. But at the end of 
 three weeks the critics discovered suddenly that every 
 Christian sect was speaking of the restraint and reverence 
 with which the book was written, whereupon the opening 
 chapters, which were thought so charming three weeks 
 ago, became long and tedious, and it was not till Jesus 
 appeared that the story began to hold the reader. And 
 
what a vision of old Palestine when he returned to the 
 Brook Kerith after the crucifixion to resume his shepherd's 
 life, leading his flock over the hills from pasture to pas- 
 ture, and what drama and clash of character when Paul 
 came to the cavern of the Essenes seeking refuge from the 
 Jews, who sought to drown him in the river Jordan ! But 
 whilst I tell of the shifting views of the journalists the 
 reader is asking himself how Mudie and Smith regarded 
 The Brook Kerith, and I am in the sad plight of not being 
 able to tell him, my interest in these firms having dwindled 
 till they were well-nigh forgotten. And their names might 
 not have appeared in this Apologia if The Brook Kerith 
 had not roused a new enemy as malignant as they, a con- 
 vert to Rome, who applied to the magistrate at Bow Street 
 for a warrant against the book on the grounds of blas- 
 phemy, which the magistrate refused to grant, saying it 
 had long been decided that British subjects were free to 
 accept Jesus as God or man as it pleased their fancy; 
 he seems to have pointed out that if The Brook Kerith 
 were forbidden, some ten or twenty, maybe a hundred 
 thousand volumes would have to be interdicted, to which 
 the applicant (so it was reported in the evening papers) 
 replied that he would not have objected to the divinity of 
 Christ being denied in a scientific book, but The Brook 
 Kerith was a story. And whilst readers no doubt lay 
 back in their chairs wondering what spite, malice, envy, 
 hatred, direct or derivative, could have propelled a man 
 on to such a forlorn quest as a warrant for the inter- 
 diction of a Syrian story related from a different point 
 of view from the one which some churchmen think pre- 
 vails in the synoptic gospels, I lay back in mine, asking 
 myself how much money the applicant had had to pay for 
 wasting the magistrate's time; and upon inquiry I learnt 
 that the application probably cost him ten pounds. But 
 
XX VII 
 
 he must have known, said I, that the application would 
 be dismissed; his solicitors must have told him; so why 
 did he insist upon throwing away ten pounds? For the 
 sake of an advertisement, perhaps. Whereupon I began 
 to congratulate myself that my publisher was a man of re- 
 straint, for had he been more go-ahead he might have ar- 
 ranged for a copy of The Brook Kerith to be soaked in 
 paraffin and burnt in Hyde Park in front of a cinemato- 
 graph camera. If this had happened, I should have had to 
 begin an action at law. Mr. Werner Laurie was, however, 
 satisfied with the advertisement given to him gratuitously 
 by Rome's convert — Rome gathers them all into her fold, 
 especially those whose careers are behind them; and the 
 application for a warrant faded from my mind till a music- 
 hall singer brought an action against my publisher, Mr. 
 Heinemann, for the use of the name, Lewis Seymour, in 
 the title of my book: Lewis Seymour and Some Women. 
 An old enemy or a new one, I said, and one that comes in 
 strange guise, for the suggestion of success among the 
 ladies should not be distasteful to one who gets his living 
 on the 'alls. And thought linking into thought, it came 
 to me to consider blackmail as a motive, but as time went 
 by without bringing a proposal from Mr. Seymour's solic- 
 itors to settle the alleged libel out of court, the motive of 
 blackmail was superseded by the advertisement motive; 
 but this, like the blackmail motive, had to be dropped: 
 For no fruitful advertisement can be gotten from a libel 
 case dismissed with costs. " But you don't know that it 
 will be dismissed with costs." " It will be, or the art of fic- 
 tion will become extinct " — my words to Mr. Heinemann. 
 " A new enemy has come up or an old one in disguise," I 
 continued, " for this case does not square with the Artemus 
 Jones case. The plaintiff only acquired the name of Lewis 
 Seymour some three years ago, and he was three when 
 A Modern Lover was published." " So the name is the 
 
same in both books ? " Mr. Heinemann inquired, and I 
 answered that it was; whereupon Mr. Heinemann mused, 
 and to awake him from his meditation, I said : " The 
 story is the same; but the text was so poor that I had to 
 rewrite it." 
 
 And during the months that had to pass before the case 
 came into court, we often wondered in Bedford Street 
 what the grounds for complaint would be, and when I 
 called at Sir George Lewis's office and the case was dis- 
 cussed between us, I remember his saying : " If Lewis 
 Seymour gets a verdict he will be in the position to bring 
 another action." " How is that ? " I asked. " By chang- 
 ing his name to Tom Jones he will be able to 
 get a good mulct from the publishers of Fielding's 
 novel, and novelists will have to call their characters 
 A, B, C, D, or 1, 2, 3, 4." " But he cannot get a 
 verdict," I interjected, and Sir George spoke of the 
 possibility of the case being tried by a stupid jury 
 and a weak judge. " And then," I answered, " we shall 
 have to go to Appeal, else the art of fiction will become 
 extinct in England, which is impossible, stories being as 
 natural to man as breath. A verdict for Lewis Seymour 
 must be reversed by the Court of Appeal ; why then should 
 he persist in this action? His solicitors must have told 
 him that he will be defeated in the end if not in the be- 
 ginning. A music-hall singer is rarely a rich man. Who 
 then is putting up the money? " Sir George was unable 
 to answer my questions, and when in course of time it came 
 for me to go into the witness-box, I found myself con- 
 fronted by a little, round, dumpling Jew, who began: 
 " Now, Mr. Moore, you are a very superior sort of novel- 
 ist, aren't you? All the same, I venture to think you 
 would like to increase the number of your readers." 
 " On the contrary," I answered, " I try to limit them J " 
 
whereupon the little man began to fumble among his 
 papers. After an interval he raised his head, and look- 
 ing me full in the face, he said: "You tell the court 
 that your aim is not to extend the number of your readers 
 but to reduce them? " I acquiesced. " Now what does 
 Mr. Heinemann say to that? " he inquired. " Mr. Heine- 
 mann is my publisher and not my literary confidant," I 
 answered, and the judge informed Mr. Lewis Seymour's 
 counsel that my conversations with Mr. Heinemann could 
 not be taken as evidence. " You must put your question 
 to Mr. Heinemann when he goes into the witness-box," 
 he said to the little man, who again buried his face in his 
 brief, and whose next question was : " You will admit that 
 Lewis Seymour and Some Women is a suggestive title ? " 
 " Every good title," I answered, " is suggestive." " I do 
 not mean suggestive in a general sense," he replied, " but 
 in a particular." " The title is suggestive of men and 
 women," I said, mentioning for his instruction that nearly 
 all prose narrative in literature was about men and wom- 
 en, a view that Mr. Justice Darling developed in his ad- 
 dress to the jury, making too much of the fact that my 
 literary conventions were not those of Anthony Trollope, 
 an almost aggressive attitude, which he would not have 
 adopted towards the book if Mr. Heinemann's counsel had 
 asked me how the original book, A Modern Lover, was re- 
 ceived by the Press, for I should have been able to tell him 
 that it was received everywhere with approbation, in The 
 Spectator in a two-column review, an honour that a first 
 novel seldom receives, and, a still rarer honour, in an ar- 
 ticle in The Fortnightly Review. As it cannot be disagree- 
 able to Sir Henry Norman to be mentioned as the writer 
 of the article, I will take this opportunity to thank him 
 for it; and after this brief interruption in our narrative, 
 I return to tell how the inadequate intelligence of our 
 counsel obscured the case so completely that the jury 
 
would have retired to consider their verdict with the very 
 vaguest notion of the story they had been listening 
 to all day, and the music-hall singer might have 
 gotten his verdict, if Mr. Justice Darling had not rescued 
 our case from the darkness into which the irrelevant 
 speeches and the irrelevant cross-examination of Mr. 
 Lewis Seymour and his two witnesses, a chauffeur and a 
 hairdresser, had dragged it. His references to dif- 
 ferent writers, to Fielding and Thackeray, Dick- 
 ens and Eliot, and to their use of names, were inter- 
 esting and instructive, and it is to be regretted that the 
 newspapers printed no adequate report of his speech, for 
 sooner or later another case of a like kind will come 
 into the Law Courts, and should the jury prove stupid 
 and the judge weak, a verdict may be returned that will 
 have to be revised in the Court of Appeal. As the jury 
 retired to consider their verdict one of them reminded the 
 judge as he went by that they had not read the book. 
 " You have heard enough of it," the judge answered, and a 
 few moments after the twelve returned with a verdict 
 of no libel and no damages. " But shall we get our 
 costs? " Mr. Heinemann asked Sir George Lewis, who 
 answered that he would make every effort to get them ; but 
 a few days later he wrote to say that there was no chance 
 of our getting our costs from Mr. Lewis Seymour, and 
 two hundred and seventy-five pounds was generously sub- 
 scribed by friends of literature, the larger portion being 
 paid by Mr. Heinemann and me. 
 
 " But why, my dear George Moore," the reader asks, 
 " do you stoop to rake up the details of a sordid law 
 case ? " " Because, dear reader, I think it necessary to 
 draw your attention to the instinct that prompted me to 
 tell Mr. Seymour's counsel that it was my intention to 
 limit the circulation of my books rather than to increase 
 
it." When I spoke the words I did not know how this was 
 to be done, but the oftener I pondered them the clearer it 
 became to me that my instinct had taken me by the hand. 
 For thirty years I had resisted Mudie and Smith, a perse- 
 cution sometimes violent and libellous, always continuous, 
 and as Mr. Heinemann refused to believe that a new 
 enemy had come to take their places, I said : " Well, we 
 have nothing but our instincts to guide us ; we must trust 
 to them," and I brought the volume entitled A Story- 
 Teller's Holiday to Mr. Werner Laurie with a few lines 
 taking leave of the general public. 
 
 My apologia may be said to end here, but the occasion 
 to speak of one's life work does not occur twice in a life- 
 time, and I would tell the reader that he is asked to begin 
 the series with Lewis Seymour and Some Women, an ad- 
 mittedly youthful work, because A Mummer's Wife, my 
 second book, is the book of a man. At one stride I had 
 come into whatever talent I brought into the world ; a step- 
 ping-stone was needed, and as none other but Lewis Sey- 
 mour and Some Women presented itself I began to 
 remember that though the craft of the writing be rudi- 
 mentary, Mrs. Bentham, the maternal mistress, is among 
 the rudiments of the world, and for that reason, perhaps, 
 was not discovered by Trollope, Black, or Henry James, 
 of whose portrait of a lady I would remind the reader, 
 asking him to consider if she who flies from Florence (or 
 was it Rome?) because an admirer kisses her (I think 
 he succeeds in kissing only the brim of her hat), repre- 
 sents as deep humanity as Mrs. Bentham. And after 
 having considered the portraits of two ladies, the critic 
 will do well to pass on to A Mummer's Wife, for he will 
 meet in this book a man in all his instincts and habits, a 
 great hunch of unintellectualised humanity, about whom 
 he may only say in disparagement that a better corre- 
 
spondent for Dick Lennox than the almost hag who sends 
 him hexameters would have been a beautiful girl in her 
 teens; her love of Dick would have added an accent, one 
 that might have revealed him more fully. But I refrained 
 from remoulding this book, even from sharpening the 
 minor characters, and I pass on to Muslin to tell the critic 
 that he will find a hint of Esther Waters in Alice Barton. 
 Spring Days will take him from Dublin to Sussex to make 
 the acquaintance of some young women who have begun 
 to look round, to the great distress of their parents; in 
 Esther Waters, the scene is laid partly in Sussex, and 
 he will find himself among servant girls, owners of 
 race-horses, trainers and jockeys, and when the scene 
 moves from Sussex to London he will watch by a bedside 
 in Queen Charlotte's Hospital. In Evelyn Innes he will 
 assist at the rehearsals and performances of Wagner's 
 operas, and in the next book, Sister Teresa, he will pene- 
 trate into convents. Again the scene will change to 
 Ireland, and this time the show will be peasants going 
 forth to dig in lonely fields, returning home in the dusk, 
 their loys over their shoulders, peasants driving pigs and 
 bullocks to the fair on week-days, and peasants going to 
 the grey church whose bell calls over desolate lands for 
 worship. From The Lake the reader will learn how the 
 Irish priest lives in single strictness, how he sometimes 
 flies from it or takes to drink; in Hail and Farewell he will 
 shake hands with dear Edward, and in Memoirs of My 
 Dead Life he will read many love stories. The very name 
 of The Brook Kerith evokes prophets, and in A Story- 
 Teller's Holiday he will listen to yarns told by an Irish 
 vagrant in his own rustic English. In Confessions of a 
 Young Man and in Avowals (the volumes are printed 
 together), the reader will hear some of the greatest paint- 
 ers of the nineteenth century talking of Impressionism 
 
XXXI 11 
 
 in the Nouvelle Athenes, and in Victor Hugo's house in 
 the rue Blanche he will catch some echoes of Banville 
 improvising at the poet's dinner table. In these and 
 other books there will be a great number of courtesans 
 of high and low degree; in Heloise and Abelard trou- 
 badours and relic-sellers foison, and in In Single Strict- 
 ness, my last book up to the present, sex is revealed in 
 perversities, women who do not love men and men who 
 do not love women. 
 
 A great variety, no doubt, cries a reader, but style 
 demands uniformity rather than variety. My dear reader, 
 it is you who must decide whether the variety is moulded 
 into one thought. But, the caviller insists, are all these 
 books works of art? That your intentions may have been 
 to write works of art I doubt not, but are they? Answer 
 me yes or no, and not by equivocatory replies that you are 
 debarred from opinions and such like. Your question, 
 caviller, demands the definition of what art is, one that 
 Tolstoy asked in vain, discovering, however, by persistent 
 questions that he had come to detest art. But though art 
 may not be defined, it is easily recognised, and there will 
 always be some who will stop like the dowser and point, 
 saying: " Here, and not there; " and these will tell the 
 people in time to come how little or how much Apollo has 
 guided my hand. But if I cannot claim art for my books 
 I may be allowed to have accomplished yeoman service 
 by returning from the conventions of Vanity Fair and 
 The Small House at Allington to those that inspired 
 the writing of Shakespeare's plays and the Bible. Con- 
 ventions there must be; we find them in savage as 
 well as in civilised life; but man's instincts are always 
 invading the moral law, and may loosen the conventions 
 of prose narrative still further, and this Apologia serve 
 as a rallying cry for seekers of a thoughtful and personal 
 prose. 
 
 George Moore. 
 
PREFACE TO LEWIS SEYMOUR 
 AND SOME WOMEN 
 
 A MODERN LOVER was the book of a young man 
 who, in a moment of inspiration, hit upon an excellent 
 anecdote, and being without literary skill to unfold it, 
 devised a strange text out of his memories of Balzac, 
 Zola, and Goncourt. 
 
 This is a severe but just appreciation of my first prose 
 work, formed after looking through it with a view to 
 republication. 
 
 " Extraordinary," I said to myself, " is the power of 
 the anecdote; though imperfectly written and illustrated 
 with characters only faintly sketched, this first book has 
 survived the vicissitudes of thirty-five years." And I fell 
 to thinking of a story that I heard from Granville Barker 
 when he lay in bed in Dublin recovering from typhus 
 fever: how, cycling, one day, he had overtaken a tall, 
 gaunt man at the foot of a hill — Furnivall, who, being old, 
 had stepped down from his machine, and Barker, desirous 
 of talk, stepped down from his; and pushing their ma- 
 chines in front of them, they discoursed literature, prob- 
 ably one of Barker's plays — something that he had written 
 or was minded to write. Barker relates that he tarried over 
 the mentality of his characters, and that Furnivall cried 
 out : " Get on with the story : it's the story that counts." 
 
 Furnivall is right. Style and presentation of character 
 and a fine taste in the selection of words are secondary 
 gifts; and secondary gifts may be acquired, may be de- 
 veloped at least, but the story-teller comes into the world 
 fully equipped almost from the first, finding stories 
 wherever he goes as instinctively as the reaper in the 
 cornfield discovers melodies that the professor of counter- 
 point and harmony strives after vainly in his university. 
 In like manner Bobert Louis Stevenson strove after 
 
XXXVI 
 
 stories, suspecting all the while that his were not in- 
 stinctive melodies. He says in one of his essays that 
 the nearest equivalent to literature in music is the story. 
 I should be puzzled to give a reason for my belief that 
 a doubt regarding himself is implicit in these words, but 
 I feel them to be full of suspicion that his gift of story- 
 telling was not as natural as the reaper's, who sings a 
 song in the morning in the cornfield and tells a story at 
 night, hushing the fireside, for his is a heartfelt story, 
 significant of human life as it passes down the ages, an 
 artless thing, a wayside weed, but one that we turn to 
 and find a pleasure in when wearied of artificial flowers. 
 Stevenson's are cunningly fashioned and coloured, for 
 he was a great man of letters with every literary gift but 
 one that he could well have done without, so well, indeed, 
 that we must all regret the time he wasted among islands, 
 lying about veiled in grey and azure haze, peopled with 
 dummy pirates and slave-drivers: poor substitutes, in- 
 deed, for his own winning personality. As long as he 
 was faithful to himself he wrote with a teeming fancy; 
 but as soon as he left the circle of his own experience he 
 wandered in wastes so desert that it may be doubted if 
 Arabia could furnish more barren spots than his stories, 
 and I offer up thanks that he did not try to introduce a 
 narrative into The Amateur Emigrant. Everything is 
 there: atmosphere, characters, wit, humour, fine percep- 
 tion of life; but all these admirable qualities would have 
 been destroyed by one drop of story. " How extraordi- 
 nary ! " we say, and fall to thinking. But however 
 closely we look into Robert Louis Stevenson's talent, we 
 find that we cannot unriddle it and say why a man of 
 such high literary attainments should show himself in- 
 ferior again and again to the ignorant harvester. The 
 good fairy came in at the window with her presents, and 
 as soon as she had laid them by the child's cradle she 
 departed; but no sooner was she out of sight than the 
 wicked fairy descended by the chimney, and, standing 
 
by the cradle, said: " I cannot take away the gifts that the 
 good fairy has given thee, but I can blight them for ever 
 in thine eyes. Thou shalt never write a story that does not 
 seem toshery to thee." If this fairy-tale explanation of a 
 strange stint be deemed inacceptable by grown-up people, 
 to satisfy them we will say that the personality of Eobert 
 Louis Stevenson was so intense that the light he shed 
 blinded him to all other human personalities. 
 
 Without human feeling and sentiment, story-telling 
 becomes almost meaningless; and not finding these quali- 
 ties in Dr. Jehyll and Mr. Hyde, The Master of Bal- 
 lantroe, Catriona, and Weir of Hermiston, I railed 
 against the admiration of my friends for a truly great 
 literary genius, and strove to discredit him in my criti- 
 cal writings. But if our acquaintance, instead of be- 
 ginning with these dry books, had begun with Travels 
 with a Donkey, all would have been different. We 
 would have become friends. My life would have been 
 enriched, and I should have had the pleasure of saying 
 to his face: " I have just read the most entrancing book 
 in the English language." But Fate was not kind to 
 me. It was only last year that I read Travels with a 
 Donkey. Immediately afterwards I read The Inland 
 Voyage, and my pleasure in this second book was no 
 less than my pleasure in the first. After that I read all 
 Stevenson's essays, and look forward to writing an essay 
 in which I shall try to reveal the genius of Robert Louis 
 Stevenson as I see it now. . . . The little monosyllable 
 " now " reminds me that I have indulged in a long digres- 
 sion, and that my present purpose is a preface to Lewis 
 Seymour and Some Women — a much less delectable 
 task than an essay on Robert Louis Stevenson, for Lewis 
 Seymour and Some Women is a story, and stories do not 
 need prefaces, but stories cannot be published without 
 publishers, and publishers like prefaces, so here goes. 
 
 Three women undertake to work for a young man's 
 welfare: a work-girl, a rich woman, and a lady of high 
 
degree. All contribute something, and the young man 
 is put on a high pedestal. One worshipper retains her 
 faith, one loses hers partially, and one altogether. " An 
 anecdote that the folk behind me invented, and that the 
 artist in front of them developed, and so true and beau- 
 tiful," I said, " that it has carried a badly written book 
 into my collected works." And many days were passed 
 in doleful meditations and qualms of conscience that the 
 religious man who can appreciate the fear of those that 
 have sinned against the Holy Ghost, but is without sym- 
 pathy for those that have sinned against Apollo, will not 
 understand. Our gods are different, but our trouble is 
 the same no matter from what source it proceeds. Again 
 and again I took up A Modern Lover and threw it 
 from me after reading a page, saying, " Such jargon as 
 this is beyond hope of revision " ; and weary with argu- 
 ment and striving with myself, I turned quickly out of 
 my secretary's room, leaving the poor girl alarmed lest 
 a morbid sense of literary imperfection should impinge 
 upon and undermine my usual excellent health. But we 
 are so constituted that we cannot remain permanently 
 unhappy. And one day, while bathing, it occurred to me 
 suddenly that though it was impossible to revise the text 
 of A Modern Lover, a new novel might be written 
 round an anecdote which appealed to my aesthetic sense 
 to-day as much as it did when I first discovered it thirty- 
 five years ago. " A new book," I said, " may be re- 
 moulded about it — a book that will need a new title, 
 Lewis Seymour and Some Women. A delightful title, 
 if not as original as my many other titles, full of sug- 
 gestion " ; and the new book having taken possession of 
 me, I stepped out of my bath with all kinds of lovely 
 scenes rising in the imagination, and so impatient to be 
 written, that I dried and dressed myself hurriedly and 
 ran downstairs to begin the dictation while the rashers 
 were roasting. 
 
XXXIX 
 
 After breakfast the dictation was resumed, and the 
 composition flowed on steadily and easily, swayed by 
 the anecdote; descriptions and dialogue rolled them- 
 selves into my secretary's notebook like a summer sea 
 over a long white strand with here and there a rock 
 around which the tide swirled day after day — halcyon 
 days of fifteen hundred, two thousand, sometimes two 
 thousand five hundred words in the day. A joyous com- 
 position Lewis Seymour and Some Women was, surely; 
 begun and finished in three months, written out of 
 the heart's abundance without interruptions of barren 
 days of doubts. I take my hat off to A Modern Lover, 
 for it was to it, my first book, that I owe my last 
 literary happiness, and fall to telling that it was not 
 till the last pages were written that trouble began again. 
 Not till then did I ask myself if the book I had written 
 could be described as a new book. Which is it — an old- 
 time lamp with a smoking wick that I have endeavoured 
 to trim, or a new lamp full of oil and burning brightly? 
 
 My heart gave back no answer; but at last a friend 
 said : " However much you may change the book, some 
 will say you have not changed it enough." " And if I 
 were to publish it under the title of A Modern Lover? " 
 I asked. My friend answered : " If you were to do 
 that, as many critics would say that you were foist- 
 ing a new book upon the public in place of an old one — 
 a thing, it would be said, you had no right to do." " But 
 your answer, dear friend, doesn't carry me any further " ; 
 to which he answered : " Is Lewis Seymour and Some 
 Women to you a new book or an old book revised? " 
 " To me it is a new book from end to end." " Then," 
 he said, " call it a new book, only tell your story clearly 
 in your preface, omitting no detail." 
 
 This I have striven to do, and I hope the small but 
 select circle of readers who find pleasure in my writings 
 will approve this decision, arrived at after due considera- 
 tion by myself and competent authority. 
 
LEWIS SEYMOUR AND 
 SOME WOMEN 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 " YOU can have it for fifteen shillings." 
 
 " I dare say, but I don't intend to buy any more 
 water-colours of you." 
 
 " You have hardly looked at this one. ..." 
 
 " No, I really can't ; I have at least a hundred and 
 odd drawings by you, and half of them aren't even 
 numbered." 
 
 " If you don't buy this one I'm afraid you'll never have 
 the chance of buying another." 
 
 At these words the picture dealer, a tall gaunt man, 
 white-haired and bold, turned and stared at a tall thin 
 young man whose melting eyes had often provoked his 
 sympathies. There was a strange glitter in these dark 
 blue-grey eyes, and the young man seemed to be aware 
 of the influence his eyes could exercise, for he opened 
 them very wide and fixed them upon Bendish. His eyes 
 had wheedled many a sovereign out of the picture dealer, 
 and the young man's high forehead, prominent at each 
 temple, had somehow put a belief into Bendish's mind 
 that Lewis Seymour would discover a new genius to the 
 world one of these days. He had been expecting him to 
 break out into an altogether original style of painting for 
 the last three years, but Lewis had so far failed to realise 
 Bendish's hopes, and the painting that he was now offering 
 for sale did not differ from the two hundred water-colours 
 that had preceded it. "Why should I buy?" the old 
 man was asking himself, and reading hesitation in 
 
 1 
 
the dealer's eyes, Lewis Seymour repeated his words: 
 
 " You had better buy now, for I'm afraid you will 
 never have a chance of buying another." 
 
 " You mean, Mr. Seymour, that if I don't buy your 
 drawing you'll fling yourself over one of the bridges. 
 How many times do you think I've heard that story, and 
 where do you think I'd be if I had listened to it every 
 time it was told? In the workhouse." 
 
 "I suppose that is so," Lewis answered; "all the 
 same, what I say is nearer the truth than you think 
 for." And he looked into old Bendish's piercing eyes 
 inquiringly. " He thinks he can get it for seven and 
 six," Lewis said to himself ; and while watching Bendish's 
 long gnarled nose, he held his tongue in the hope that 
 silence might exasperate him to suggest a price. But 
 the picture dealer had conquered the light temptation to 
 succour the young man that had oppressed him, and he 
 pretended a close investigation of a pile of engravings, 
 holding each up to the light for a moment, and then 
 throwing it back into the heap. 
 
 " He is trying to pretend he is busy so that he may 
 get rid of me," Lewis muttered, and his heart began to 
 fail him : " or it may be that he will not buy at any price. 
 But how can this be," he said to himself, " for he would 
 always buy at a price." 
 
 His need was greater to-day than it had ever been, 
 and in his nervousness he looked round and began to 
 wonder how much money Bendish had spent upon the 
 multifarious and incoherent collection piled about the 
 walls: to ask himself what taste or principle guided the 
 picture dealer in his purchases. Why that Virgin in red 
 and blue draperies ? And if he liked that kind of picture, 
 why did he buy that set of racing sketches? And if he 
 liked the racing sketches, why did he buy that group of 
 peasants collected before an altar bowing before the 
 Host that the priest, standing under a canopy, exhibited 
 
to the congregation? Lewis recognised this picture as a 
 possible Goya, but did Bendish? And if he liked that 
 picture, why did he buy those modern pictures — the 
 pictures of the school that called themselves " The 
 Moderns " ? How did he reconcile Goya with Thompson, 
 from whom he had bought a hundred pictures and 
 sketches? And to please old Bendish and to persuade 
 him to purchase his water-colour, Lewis began to speak 
 of Thompson, the leader of the modern movement. And 
 it seemed to him that the trick was about to succeed, for 
 Bendish broke the depressing silence at once. " Thomp- 
 son," he said, " has come along wonderfully," and he 
 held forth saying that if the new school calling 
 themselves " The Moderns " ever succeeded in gaining 
 the public taste, the Fitzroy Square collection would ex- 
 cite the envy of the dilettanti of Europe. 
 
 Lewis looked at him and wondered. How could a 
 man talk of a new artistic movement, and at the same 
 time buy every sort of rubbish if the seller abated his 
 price sufficiently? " He is as ignorant of art as a carp," 
 he said to himself ; " he wouldn't know a millet from a 
 Corot, a Raphael from a Rubens, and yet his pleasure is 
 to collect pictures. But what is his ignorance or his 
 wisdom to me if he will not buy from me ? " And he 
 waited an occasion of getting back to the subject of his 
 water-colour drawings. 
 
 At last his chance came: the old man changing the 
 conversation, abruptly asked him why he had deserted 
 the new school? This was not so; as Lewis explained he 
 could show a drawing as modern as anything Thompson 
 had done, and he searched his portfolio. But the drawing 
 he drew forth failed to persuade Bendish out of his ugly 
 humour; and Lewis was forced to throw himself upon 
 the old man's charity. 
 
 " I shall not be able to live through the next week if 
 you do not advance a few shillings." 
 
" I shan't buy any more at present," Bendish returned, 
 and he spoke so sharply that Lewis felt that he ■would 
 be prejudicing future chances if he persisted. But had 
 he any future beyond the next few hours? A look of 
 horror and helplessness passed over the young man's 
 face; he said nothing, but took up his drawings, leaving 
 the old man still fumbling through his portfolios in the 
 failing light. 
 
 It was not raining, but there was a mist about, and 
 occasionally a leaf fluttered down into the sloppy street. 
 
 " I can bear it no longer," he muttered ; " the struggle 
 is too great. It is frightful. Life is not worth it. The 
 most I can hope for is a bare existence; life isn't worth 
 the struggle." At the same moment he experienced in 
 imagination the chill of the water and its taste. " But, 
 after all, the moment isn't a long one. Can I face it? 
 And if I can't?" 
 
 His resources were exhausted, his clothes were pawned, 
 and he did not know who would lend him a sixpence; he 
 had borrowed till he had turned every friend into a 
 creditor, and he remembered that everybody avoided him. 
 
 " There is no hope, not a particle." He only saw the 
 passengers along the street as phantoms, and he walked 
 like one in a nightmare till the light, which the flaring 
 windows of half a dozen public-houses threw over the wet 
 pavement, awoke him, and he realised again, and more 
 bitterly, that he was lost. A few moments after he was 
 caught in a crowd that poured through the entrance of a 
 fashionable theatre, and the clear voices of two young 
 men sounded shrill in his ears. 
 
 They were in evening dress, and the white cravats 
 and patent-leather shoes brought back to him the dream 
 of life and pleasure and luxury he so ardently desired, 
 and out of which fate was hurrying him. " But is it 
 true that I'm going to the river ... to the river," he 
 repeated, unable to believe that the river was the only 
 
possible loosening of the coil in which he was entangled; 
 yet it did not seem to him that he was going to die that 
 night, and, losing sight of his own personality, suddenly 
 he began to see the scene as a picture to be called 
 " Suicide." 
 
 " In the foreground," he said, " just out of the way 
 of a fashionable crowd going into a theatre, two young 
 men discuss whether they shall seek amusement there 
 or elsewhere, whilst a ragged wight stands reading a 
 notice posted on the walls : 
 
 " Two Pounds Reward. 
 
 " Yesterday, at nine o'clock, a young man drowned 
 himself from the parapet of Waterloo Bridge. The 
 above reward will be paid to anyone giving such infor- 
 mation as will lead to the recovery of the body." 
 
 The idea fascinated him, and he wondered if it would 
 be possible to make plain in a picture that the poor man 
 reading the notice recognised the fact that dead he was 
 was worth two pounds, but alive he was merely an 
 outcast, in whom no one took the least interest. 
 
 He continued to think of his picture all the way down 
 Catherine Street till he came to the Strand, and remem- 
 bered suddenly that the river was not many yards away. 
 Should he jump from the parapet or steal down a flight 
 of steps to the water's edge? Again his thoughts drifted, 
 and looking at the women as they went by wrapped up in 
 silk, the rose-colour of their feet visible through the 
 open lace stockings as they stepped from their broughams, 
 he began to wonder how it was that none of this elegant 
 sensuality was for him. All these people had money, 
 and there must be many among the fashionable crowd 
 that would like to save a young artist, perhaps a man 
 of genius. Such things had happened before, and he 
 looked into the faces going by, hoping to awaken the 
 
6 
 
 heart of the richest and most beautiful woman to his 
 necessity. If he could only make his necessity known; 
 but that was what he could not do. It seemed to him 
 that a certain woman was about to speak, but a man 
 followed her, and they went into the theatre, leaving 
 him in his misfortune; and still wondering what the 
 spectacle meant, he stood looking vacantly into the pass- 
 ing faces, hoping to awaken pity in a passer-by, though 
 he knew there was no hope. 
 
 At last he was hustled into the street, and then, wak- 
 ing up suddenly, he found he had to cross it to avoid 
 being run over. But would it not have been better 
 to have allowed the omnibus to pass over him? It would 
 have saved him from the pain of coming to a decision. 
 Be that as it may, he was nearer the Thames than he 
 was before. He was in Wellington Street, and at the 
 end of it within a few yards was the river. 
 
 " I suppose I am going to drown," he said, " or else 
 go to the workhouse — one or the other " ; and leaning 
 his arms on the parapet, he examined the countless crusta- 
 tions of the stone sparkling in the rays of the electric 
 light. But in a moment remembering himself, and think- 
 ing his conduct unworthy of a man who contemplated 
 committing suicide, he looked down into the whirl of the 
 water, and it began to seem to him that he really desired 
 peace, and he wished that somebody as miserable as he 
 were by, determined to drown herself, any woman or 
 young girl for preference. They might bind themselves 
 together with a scarf. He dwelt on the idea, thinking it 
 a beautiful one, saying to himself: " To-morrow or to-day 
 — what matters, since death is the end of all ? " And 
 then, the magnetism of the water taking possession of 
 him, he fell to thinking that his last day had come and 
 gone; he saw monuments, bridges, and lights in a mist 
 that seemed to descend, and in turn to pass into the 
 river. Clutching on to the parapet, he tried to climb 
 
over it; but a policeman's step warned him in time, and 
 while waiting for the officer's disappearance into the mist, 
 he remembered that the day was Friday: to-morrow 
 Gwynnie Lloyd would have fifteen shillings ; and thinking 
 she would not refuse to share it with him, he stood 
 irresolute, much relieved at the respite, though somewhat 
 disappointed to find that he lacked courage to free him- 
 self from the disagreeable coil; for after all, though she 
 might lend him five shillings, Gwynnie could not support 
 him. He would have to apply himself to the task of 
 getting his own living. But he had tried, and failed. 
 Ah, if it hadn't been for that policeman, the trouble would 
 all be over ... by now. 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 "I WONDER if I should have had the courage?" he 
 asked as he threaded his way through the crowds of girls 
 and boys who filled the roadway. " That I shall never 
 know. But something may happen to my advantage be- 
 tween this and next week. Old Bendish may not be in such 
 a bad humour " ; and he fell to laying plans till he reached 
 his lodging, a room above a hardware shop. The landlord 
 was now bargaining with an old woman who would not 
 give the price he asked for a kettle. He moved aside 
 to let Lewis pass, and his little daughter ran forward, 
 tottering under the weight of a large yellow cat. 
 
 " When are you going to paint my picture with pussy, 
 Mr. Seymour? " 
 
 " To-morrow, perhaps, if you are a good girl," Lewis 
 answered ; and with a nod to his landlady, he went up the 
 staircase and on the top floor struck a match. The 
 match showed two doors almost facing each other, and as 
 he unlocked his the other opened and a girl's voice asked: 
 
 " Is that you, Lewis ? " 
 
" Yes ; come in." And shading the match with his 
 hand from the draught, he succeeded in lighting his tal- 
 low candle that stood on a table covered with paints and 
 brushes. "You have been waiting for me, Gwynnie? " 
 he asked, and she guessed from his manner that he had 
 not sold his sketches. " Bendish would not buy anything; 
 he may next week — you know how capricious he is. I 
 told him if he didn't advance a few shillings that I should 
 have to drown. But he didn't seem to care, and if it 
 hadn't been for a policeman " 
 
 " Do you not know, Lewis, that God forbids us to 
 destroy ourselves ? " 
 
 "Does He? Where? Not in the Bible. You're a 
 good sweet girl, Gwynnie; we're young and in good 
 health, but all is useless for the want of a few pounds." 
 
 " Have a little patience," said Gwynnie, trembling at 
 the idea of losing Lewis. 
 
 " Patience ! " Lewis replied, sinking into a chair. 
 " Have I not had patience ? I've been patient to the 
 last shilling. Here is the last." 
 
 Gwynnie would have liked a good cry, but she felt 
 it was her duty to help him. 
 
 " Never mind," she said, trying to assume a cheerful 
 voice; " I shall have fifteen to-morrow, and you are 
 sure to sell something soon. And now," she said, restrain- 
 ing her tears with difficulty, " you'll promise me never to 
 attempt such a wicked thing again. You say you're fond 
 of me; if you were you'd not talk of drowning yourself. 
 What should I do without you? " She continued to 
 persuade him, and he promised to begin her portrait next 
 morning. 
 
 " A fancy sketch," she said, " something that will 
 please — a fairy, a sixteen-year-old fairy." 
 
 " Are you sixteen ? " he asked, and he studied the lines 
 of her figure: a rosebud, it seemed to him, just beginning 
 to brighten, and to swell in its leaves. 
 
" Yes, I'm sixteen," she answered. 
 
 A step was heard on the stairs, a knock came at the 
 door, and without waiting for an answer, the stranger 
 pushed the door open and entered. 
 
 " I have something for you, a commission," he said, 
 distorting his long mouth into a laugh, and showing a 
 quavering tooth. " I called in at Mr. Carver's to-day, 
 you know, in Bond Street, and found him in an awful 
 fix: he has an order to supply some decorative panels; 
 he promised that one should he ready by Monday — in 
 fact, it will be of no use if it isn't. The gentleman he 
 relied on to do them is ill, another is out of town. ' Lewis 
 Seymour is our man,' I cried. ' Right you are,' he 
 answered, and I've brought you the panel, and I'm 
 going to pay you liberal; you'll have more to do if 
 it suits." 
 
 " How much ? " asked Lewis. 
 
 " Well, this is what I want done," Mr. Jacobs said, 
 taking the panel from out of a piece of paper : " I want 
 you to paint me a Venus rising from the sea with a few 
 Cupids, and it must be at Mr. Carver's on Monday at 
 twelve o'clock." 
 
 " How much is it to be — a fiver ? " 
 
 "A fiver!" repeated Mr. Jacobs, "you're joking." 
 It was arranged that three pounds was to be the price, 
 and Mr. Jacobs was about to go, when Lewis said: 
 
 " Could you let me have a trifle in advance? I'm 
 very hard up." 
 
 "I really couldn't — I've only a few coppers on me; 
 besides, it's Mr. Carver who will pay you; but I'm 
 sorry not to be able to oblige." 
 
 " Couldn't you manage half a sovereign ? " 
 
 "No, no," cried the old man testily; "I'd sooner 
 give the panel to someone else " ; and seeing that he 
 would not give him anything, Lewis fetched the light 
 to show him downstairs. 
 
10 
 
 " On Monday morning at twelve — no mistakes. It 'ull 
 be no use later. And mind you make it look 'fetching': 
 it's for a gentleman who likes them young," said Mr. 
 Jacobs, as he shuffled downstairs. 
 
 " Well, Lewis," Gwynnie exclaimed, " didn't I tell 
 you it would all come right? Three pounds, and pros- 
 pects of more work — isn't it fine? " 
 
 " Three pounds isn't much — he ought to have given 
 me five; but never mind, let's have some supper on the 
 strength of it." 
 
 " It's foolish to be extravagant just because you've 
 had a bit of luck ; that's what gets you into such trouble." 
 
 " I've a shilling to-night, and you'll have fifteen 
 to-morrow, and I shall have three pounds on Monday; 
 it's all right. A couple of sausages and a pint of porter ? " 
 
 Gwynnie demurred, but she did not insist, for she was 
 afraid to damp his enthusiasm. 
 
 " I'll fetch them," she said, and while she was away 
 he began to dream his composition and to think of some 
 drawings he would be able to make use of. He thought 
 of some engravings, and in a few minutes Gwynnie re- 
 turned with the sausages, to which she had added a couple 
 of baked potatoes. And as they supped he tried to ex- 
 plain to her what the picture would be, but she did not 
 seem to like it, and he railed against her prejudices. 
 " One would think you were a Quaker, whereas thou'rt 
 but a Methodist," he said to her, at which they both 
 laughed and then bade each other good-night. 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 IT was at eight o'clock next morning that Gwynnie and 
 Lewis parted. Gwynnie went to the shop in Regent 
 Street where she was employed, and Lewis pulled for- 
 ward his easel. He thought that he would be able to 
 
11 
 
 dodge up a very plausible birth of Venus by fitting the 
 legs of one drawing on to the body of another, and he 
 could arrange a pair of arms tossing back a cloud of 
 hair, from an engraving. At first it seemed as if he 
 could do this, but after working a couple of hours he 
 began to feel dissatisfied with the movement; and then 
 after much rubbing out he thought he had got the hang 
 of the thing. But as soon as he began to model, the draw- 
 ing began to seem faulty. He shifted the arms, raising 
 and lowering them, thinking every minute he was coaxing 
 the figure into rhythm, till at last, half mad with fear 
 and disappointment, he scraped the panel clean. 
 
 There was no use in trying any more; he couldn't 
 do it without a model, and he had no money to pay for 
 one: there was an end of it, and leaning back in his 
 chair his thoughts reverted to suicide. If he had had 
 the courage to take the plunge it would be all over now. 
 . . . Gwynnie would be bringing home fifteen shillings; 
 he would borrow five to hire a model. A great waste of 
 money that would be, for she was just the model he 
 wanted, but she wouldn't sit. " So I shall have to borrow 
 five shillings " ; and he walked up and down the room 
 expecting her about six, and it was about half an hour 
 after six when she bounced into the room, her face 
 rippling with smiles that disappeared as her eyes fell on 
 the panel. 
 
 " Why," she exclaimed, " what have you been doing 
 to-day, Lewis ? Where's the picture ? " 
 
 " I spoilt it — it wouldn't do. I wiped it out." 
 
 " Oh, Lewis, how could you ! " and her eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 " I'm as much cut up about it as you, but it is no 
 good, I can't do it without a model, and was thinking of 
 asking you to lend me a few shillings to pay for one." 
 
 " Of course I will," she answered, putting her hand 
 in her pocket. Alas! Her purse was not there, and 
 
12 
 
 pale with fright she said: " I'm afraid my pocket has 
 been picked." And divining his thoughts, Gwynnie flung 
 her arms about his shoulders exclaiming : " Lewis, you 
 promised me never to think of anything so wicked again ! " 
 " My dear girl," he said, putting her arms aside, 
 "I'm thinking of nothing; we're very unlucky, that's 
 all." 
 
 " You've made up your mind to kill yourself." 
 " Well, what if I have ? I can't wait till starvation 
 finishes me." 
 
 " Lewis, how can you ? What should I do without 
 you ? " 
 
 " It's no use making this fuss ! Will you sit for this 
 
 picture ? Or else, even if I don't drown, I shall starve ! " 
 
 " Take off all my clothes and stand naked before you? 
 
 Anything " 
 
 " Yes, anything but what will save me ! " 
 
 "I'd do anything for you, Lewis; but " 
 
 " You know," he said, taking her hand, " that I love 
 you, Gwynnie, and that I wouldn't ask you to do any- 
 thing I thought wrong. I assure you it is only a question 
 of art, nothing more. It can't be wrong to save our 
 lives. Remember, neither you nor I have any money; 
 and you heard what Jacobs said — that this would bring 
 other orders, and then we shall have lots of money, and 
 
 shall be able to marry. You know I love you " 
 
 " How do you mean I must sit, Lewis — quite naked? " 
 " It is better to sit quite naked than half naked." 
 " But perhaps my figure isn't good enough ? " 
 " Yes it is. You've a very pretty figure." 
 " You're not to speak like that, Lewis, if it is only 
 a question of art. But you won't think I'm a bad girl 
 if I do sit for you? " 
 
 " Bad girl ? " he replied. " Good heavens ! You're 
 sitting so that we may save our lives." 
 " Yes, that it is," she said. 
 
13 
 
 " You will have to sit a long while." 
 
 " That won't matter." 
 
 "But it will," he answered; "sitting is very tiring. 
 I do hope you won't mind." 
 
 " I will sit for you as long as you require me. 
 When " 
 
 " We had better begin about eight. But the room 
 will be very cold in the morning. If I had some money 
 I'd go out and buy some coal." 
 
 Gwynnie searched again in her pocket, and found 
 two shillings. She gave them to him, saying: 
 
 " I suppose you've had nothing to eat? " 
 
 " I've been at work all day," Lewis answered, " and 
 haven't had time to feel hungry. We'll go out and have 
 some supper together." 
 
 " I don't think I should care to go out again." 
 
 " But, Gwynnie, you haven't had any dinner." 
 
 " Yes, I have ; and if I'm to sit to you to-morrow I'd 
 better go to bed. You say that sitting is tiring. At 
 eight, then. Shall I knock at your door, or will you 
 knock at mine? " 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 WHEN Lewis knocked at her door she answered, " In 
 a minute, Lewis " ; and she came across the landing 
 holding a coarse shawl about her shoulders and body. 
 Her legs and feet were bare, and Lewis, dissembling any 
 interest in her appearance, hoped that she would not 
 find the room too cold. 
 
 " No ; the room is quite warm. I'm ready when you 
 are," she answered; and placing her in the centre of 
 the room where the light would fall upon her directly, 
 he stood waiting for her to throw her shawl away. She 
 seemed irresolute^ but, as if ashamed of herself, shp 
 
14 
 
 threw her shawl aside almost disdainfully and waited 
 for him to begin his painting, never suspecting that he 
 would have to place her in the pose, and that to do 
 this he would have to come near and to handle her. 
 
 It seemed for a long time that she would not be 
 able to take the pose; she was so nervous that she 
 could hardly understand what he said to her. Her 
 nervousness made him nervous, but it was she that com- 
 pelled him to try again and again till the pose was found. 
 
 " Now," he said, " if you can stand like that. Do you 
 think you can? " 
 
 "Yes, I think I can," she answered; but those who 
 are not professional models will stand still for a quarter 
 of an hour or so, and then fall suddenly from their full 
 height without a word of warning, and Lewis, being 
 aware of this, watched carefully; and at the first quiv- 
 ering of the muscles of her face, threw her shawl over 
 her shoulders and helped her to a chair. 
 
 When the faintness had passed off she cried a little, 
 but was consoled at hearing the drawing was going on 
 beautifully; and leaving her to recover, Lewis returned 
 to his drawing and sat considering it thoughtfully till 
 Gwynnie could take the pose again. It seemed to him 
 that she did so a little reluctantly, and that it caused her 
 perhaps a bitterer pang than before; but we are always 
 ignorant of what is passing in another's mind — Gwynnie 
 was as indifferent now as a pack-horse. 
 
 Having assured himself by measuring that his draw- 
 ing was in proportion, he took up his palette, and if 
 Gwynnie had been able to hold out till three o'clock he 
 could have finished it all from nature; but although she 
 took long rests of twenty minutes, she had after two 
 o'clock to go to her room, and lie down. 
 
 He had still to paint in the sky, sea, the Cupids, and 
 he worked till he began to fear he might spoil his picture 
 if he continued it any longer. 
 
15 
 
 He carried it to the lightest part of the room, and it 
 seemed to him to be one of the best things he had done. 
 " Things done under difficulties are often the best," he 
 said as he looked at it from the right and then from the 
 left side. " The drawing is all there," he said — " it 
 only wants a little finishing," and if he could get Gwynnie 
 to give him half an hour to-morrow before she went to 
 business, he could finish it to his satisfaction ; but, remem- 
 bering how much she had suffered for him, he began to 
 grow sentimental, and determined not to ask her. It 
 might be safer to complete it from memory ; he had gotten 
 the essentials. It was certainly one of the best things 
 he had done, and it was strange to have painted his best 
 picture the day after he had thought of drowning him- 
 self. Everything pawned, and not a shilling in the house 
 — lots of men had done away with themselves for less 
 cause. It was very probable that he would not have been 
 able to bear up any longer, but it was all right now. 
 Gwynnie had done him a great service — there was no 
 doubt about that — and vowing she should be compen- 
 sated, he began to consider his project of marrying her, 
 for she was one of those women who would think that 
 the only man she could marry was the man who first saw 
 her naked. " Every man and woman is different," he 
 said, " yet we are all alike in essentials. But what are 
 essentials? " His meditations on the subject were brought 
 to a close by his belly, which told him sharply that he 
 had eaten but a crust of bread all the day long. And 
 Gwynnie, too, had eaten nothing; so he resolved that they 
 should go out together and have some supper. But 
 Gwynnie slept so soundly that he hesitated to awaken 
 her, and went out with the intention of returning in half 
 an hour. 
 
 But Lewis's half hour was a long one, and before he 
 came back Gwynnie awoke — partly from cold, partly 
 from hunger. She had not eaten anything for nearly 
 
16 
 
 twenty hours, and to quench hunger she drank a little 
 water which relieved her, and groping her way into the 
 studio sought for the matches. Many broke under her 
 hand, but at length one flared up and she lighted a candle, 
 and stood looking at the picture she had sat for — recog- 
 nising herself in it; anybody who had seen her would 
 recognise her in it. Her first thought was to smear 
 out the likeness, but in doing this she might spoil the 
 picture, thereby making herself answerable for Lewis's 
 life. 
 
 She came back once or twice to bid good-bye to the 
 studio, where she had found some happiness and a strug- 
 gle. It cost her many a pang to go, but she felt that if 
 she stayed other temptations would result from what she 
 had done; and, fearful of her own strength to resist, she 
 sought safety in flight. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 AND when Lewis jumped off his bed next morning, and 
 when he had admired his picture — the drawing, the 
 colour, the composition — he remembered Gwynnie. 
 Where was she? — And not finding her in her room, he 
 supposed that she had gone to work; and having gotten 
 the time from a lodger, and finding it later than he 
 thought (for it was ten o'clock), he bought a paper collar, 
 brushed his clothes, tied his necktie so as to conceal the 
 shabbiness of his shirt, and started for Bond Street with 
 his picture under his arm. 
 
 He was told that Mr. Carver would see him when dis- 
 engaged; at present he was, as Lewis could see, show- 
 ing some pictures to a tall, aristocratic-looking woman, 
 who, judging from the dealer's obsequious politeness, was 
 a well-known customer. 
 
 As she raised her arm to point out some merits or 
 
17 
 
 defects in the picture before her, the movement dragged 
 the long sleeveless grey cashmere mantle closer to her 
 figure, and showed the shape of her broad shoulders and 
 delicate waist ; the fur border made the hand look smaller 
 even than it really was. A somewhat coarse, large mouth 
 contrasted strangely with the delicate refinement of the 
 nose and the beautiful temples, broad and white. Her 
 black hair wound up hastily, a graceful untidiness slipped 
 from under the dark velvet hat, and she looked so aris- 
 tocratic and dignified in her clothes and demeanour that 
 it seemed to Lewis impossible that anyone could exist 
 whose right it was to kiss her lips and call her by her 
 Christian name. 
 
 The picture dealer was now busy trying to sell to her 
 a Venetian mirror which hung on the wall opposite, and 
 the lady examined it so attentively that Lewis thought 
 she was going to buy it, but, as he looked from her to 
 the mirror itself, he saw with surprise that she was exam- 
 ining him. Their eyes met for a moment, and then she 
 turned to ask Mr. Carver some questions anent a small 
 picture which stood on a tall Chinese vase in the far 
 corner. And to exhibit the little picture in a better 
 light Mr. Carver carried it over to where Lewis was 
 sitting, asking Lewis politely to move a little on one 
 side, and then, holding the picture under the light, he 
 began : 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Bentham, this is a very sweet landscape 
 by Corot; I can guarantee it. I had it of a man who 
 bought it from the artist himself — you know his signa- 
 ture? " 
 
 She made some casual remarks, and then her eyes 
 wandered from the picture to Lewis. 
 
 The women who like rugged men would have said that 
 his hands were too long and white, his eyes of too soft 
 a blue, and that the languid poses his limbs fell into 
 naturally were too girl-like. But beauty in rags touches 
 
18 
 
 the heart and imagination, and already Mrs. Bentham 
 felt singularly curious to know who he was. 
 
 The occasion was ready at hand. She had seen him 
 unpacking his picture; it was there before her. 
 
 " Oh, what a charming picture ! " she said ; " and how 
 prettily the Cupids are grouped round the Venus ! An 
 expensive picture, Mr. Carver; are you going to buy it? " 
 
 " It is a commission I had from a gentleman ; he or- 
 dered it to fit a corner of a smoking-room," replied Mr. 
 Carver. 
 
 Mr. Carver was a large, stout man, and, like most men 
 of his calling, he was observant, and having caught Mrs. 
 Bentham more than once looking at the young painter, 
 suspected already that she was interested in him. 
 
 But afraid to introduce him because of his shabby 
 appearance, he resolved, seeing that Mrs. Bentham still 
 continued to look at Lewis, to adopt a middle course. 
 
 " You see, Mr. Seymour," he said in his pompous way, 
 " listeners do sometimes hear good of themselves." 
 
 Lewis blushed, and Mrs. Bentham pretended to look a 
 little confused. 
 
 " I'm sure I think the picture charming," she said, half 
 to Lewis, half to the dealer. 
 
 Lewis's heart was in his mouth, and he nervously tried 
 to button his collar. 
 
 " I should like to buy this picture," said Mrs. Ben- 
 tham, as she advanced to examine the Cupids more mi- 
 nutely ; " but don't you think there's too much sea and 
 sky for the size of the panel? " 
 
 Lewis blushed red, and felt so ashamed of his clothes 
 that he could scarcely say a word. 
 
 Mrs. Bentham was disappointed at his obstinacy, and, 
 after another attempt to get him into conversation, she 
 turned away, thinking him a very uninteresting young 
 man. But at this moment Lewis caught Mr. Carver's 
 eyes upon him, and as a gleam of sunlight awakens a bird, 
 
19 
 
 he recovered himself. And the spell being broken, he 
 chattered pleasantly. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " thought the picture dealer, as he played 
 with his watch-chain. " So, Mrs. Bentham, you like my 
 painters better than my pictures. Well, never mind; I 
 dare say I shall be able to turn your tastes to my advan- 
 tage, no matter how they lie." 
 
 For a moment his face wore the expression of a man 
 who has done a good action, but as he talked to his shop- 
 man it grew more reflective. An idea had struck him. 
 He remembered that some time ago — some six months 
 ago, but that didn't matter — Mrs. Bentham had asked 
 him if he knew an artist who would, under her direction, 
 decorate her ballroom from a series of drawings she had 
 collected for the purpose; she had never put her delight- 
 ful scheme for the decoration of her ballroom into exe- 
 cution, and Mr. Carver felt that the golden time had 
 come for her to do so. 
 
 A few prefatory remarks on decorative art were neces- 
 sary before he reminded her of her ballroom, and sug- 
 gested Mr. Seymour as the very person to whom such a 
 work might be confidently entrusted. iEsthetics were Mr. 
 Carver's foible, and Lewis had aroused Mrs. Bentham's 
 sympathy; the idea that she might help him was already 
 stirring in her heart, but she was not prepared for so 
 swift a transition from her dream of possibilities to an 
 actual opportunity. The vague desire, in which she had 
 found pleasure a moment earlier, frightened her when it 
 took shape in Mr. Carver's suggestion, and she received 
 it with silent astonishment, mingled with desire and fear, 
 for if she gave this commission to the young man she must 
 ask him as a visitor to Claremont House, and the dealer 
 began to think that his desire had outstripped hers. And 
 this was so, but their desires were, all the same, travelling 
 along the same road. And being a man of ready wit, he 
 was pleased to let the question rest for the present and 
 
20 
 
 to talk about Corot. But the idea of the decorations 
 seemed to sing in Mrs. Bentham's ears, and afraid that 
 her silence had wounded Lewis, she returned to the sub- 
 ject of the ballroom. She glanced at him, she hesitated, 
 and eventually, not knowing well what to do, she prom- 
 ised to call again in the course of the afternoon, and 
 wishing them both good-morning, got into her carriage 
 and vanished like a good fairy. 
 
 Lewis stood looking after her in amazement, until Mr. 
 Carver tapped him on the shoulder. 
 
 " Well, my young friend," he said, affecting an Amer- 
 ican accent, " I guess you are in good luck ; you've only 
 to play your cards well " ; then, pulling his long whiskers, 
 he leaned over and whispered : " She has seven thousand a 
 year, and has been separated from her husband for the 
 last ten years." 
 
 Lewis did not answer, not knowing quite what the 
 dealer meant. 
 
 And after watching him for a few moments, his head 
 thrown back in the fashion of a picture he had once pos- 
 sessed of Napoleon surveying the field of Austerlitz, he 
 said: 
 
 " I'm afraid you're too green ; but if you weren't " 
 
 He did not finish his phrase; he seemed to see a con- 
 quered world at his feet. At last, awaking from his rev- 
 erie, the dealer said, surveying Lewis attentively: 
 
 " You owe me a big debt of gratitude." 
 
 " Which I will repay you one of these days if I get 
 on as well as you seem to think I shall. But do you 
 think she'll give me the work to do that you and she were 
 speaking about? " 
 
 " Oh, that I can't say ! " said Mr. Carver, murmuring 
 like one waiting for an inspiration ; " but I think it quite 
 possible that she may interest herself in you — that is to 
 say, if I speak of you as perhaps I may be tempted 
 to do." 
 
21 
 
 Lewis ventured to hope that Mr. Carver would be so 
 tempted. 
 
 At last he went over to the till, and taking out three 
 sovereigns, gave them to Lewis. 
 
 " This is what I owe you. Call here to-morrow morn- 
 ing; I shall see her this afternoon, and will speak to her 
 on the subject." 
 
 Lewis thanked him for his kind intentions, and asked 
 him if he were satisfied with the panel. 
 
 " Oh, perfectly, perfectly ! It is very satisfactory 
 indeed." 
 
 " Then you will give me another to do? " 
 
 " Yes, I shall have two ready for you to-morrow — 
 that is to say, if nothing comes of the matter in hand," 
 he added. 
 
 And stunned with the shake the sudden turn of For- 
 tune's wheel had given him, Lewis walked towards the 
 Strand, wondering how it was that Mr. Carver knew so 
 well what Mrs. Bentham would do. 
 
 As he turned into Pall Mall he met Frazer, one of a 
 group of painters who styled themselves " The Moderns." 
 And Lewis continued to relate his adventure till he no- 
 ticed that Frazer was absorbed in contemplating the 
 lights and shadows in the streets; then he stopped. 
 
 The day was sloppy, but the sun shone between the 
 showers, and the violet roofs of Waterloo Place glittered, 
 scattering around reflections of vivid colour. A strip of 
 sky, of a lighter blue than the slates, passed behind the 
 dome of the National Gallery, the top of which came out 
 black against a black cloud that held the approaching 
 downpour. 
 
 " You say that my sunset effects are too violet in tone. 
 Look yonder ! " exclaimed the enthusiast ; " isn't every- 
 thing violet — walls, pools, and carriages? I can see 
 nothing that isn't violet." 
 
 Lewis admitted that there were some violet tones in 
 
22 
 
 the effect, but denied that it was composed exclusively of 
 that colour. 
 
 As they walked the violet question was argued pas- 
 sionately, but whereas Frazer's whole soul was in the dis- 
 cussion, Lewis was thinking if he should invite his friend 
 to come with him to a bar-room and have something to 
 eat. 
 
 And Frazer, who had had only a dried herring at a 
 fish-stand for dinner the night before, assented, hoping 
 that he might be able to bring Lewis back to the fold, for 
 Lewis had been a " Modern " once, about a year ago. 
 
 " Where shall we dine ? The Gaiety bar ? " 
 
 The place was full of people lolling in groups and 
 couples along a counter, with girls all arow behind the 
 counter, their clear voices, as they gave an order, ringing 
 above the long murmur of the conversation. 
 
 At last Lewis cried " Here ! " and flopped down into 
 one of the crescent-shaped nooks beneath the cathedral 
 windows. 
 
 He ordered a copious lunch and much whisky and 
 water, the sight of which attracted some academy stu- 
 dents who were talking to the barmaids, and with whisky 
 to drink and Frazer to chaff, the academy students did not 
 feel the time passing; and when they had got the en- 
 thusiast to say that the only painting of any interest was 
 what " The Moderns " were doing, they could contain 
 themselves no longer and giggled into their glasses. 
 Frazer never lost his temper, and, regardless of the mirth 
 he occasioned, continued to pour forth his aphorisms. At 
 last the hilarity was cut short by the appearance of 
 Thompson coming down the great saloon bar with Hard- 
 ing, the novelist, whose books were denounced by the 
 Press as being both immoral and cynical. Places were 
 made for the two leaders of the modern movement, and 
 Lewis began at once to tell them about his adventure. 
 
 " So you are going to decorate walls," said Thomp- 
 
23 
 
 son drily, " with extracts from Boucher, and you are 
 going to do it together — she with her palette and you 
 with your brush? Well, I hope the collaboration will 
 succeed." 
 
 " I suppose you would like me to paint ballet-girls and 
 housemaids over Greek walls. If the room is Greek, the 
 decorations must be Greek — at least, it seems so to me." 
 
 " Naturally," replied Thompson languidly (he had not 
 much belief in Lewis's artistic future). " But don't you 
 think there is a way of giving a modernised version of 
 Greek subjects that would be quite as archaeologically 
 correct as the Greek seen through Boucher? Do what he 
 did: take an old form and colour it with the spirit of the 
 age you live in." 
 
 The remark awakened a hundred thoughts in Lewis's 
 mind, and he remained thinking. 
 
 " But," said Harding, " he will succeed much better 
 by joining the woman than by working with us. The age 
 is dying of false morality and sentimentality, and neither 
 you nor I can do anything to help it, nor a host like us. 
 These women with their poetry, their art, their aspira- 
 tions, have devoured everything like a plague of locusts; 
 they have conquered the nineteenth century as the Vandals 
 did Europe in the sixth. Later on, I dare say they will 
 arrive at something; at present they are a new race, and 
 have not yet had time to digest what they have learned, 
 much less to create anything new." 
 
 " Not created anything new ! " exclaimed an academy 
 student ; " what do you say to George Sand, George Eliot, 
 and Rosa Bonheur? " 
 
 " That you have chosen the three I would have chosen 
 myself to exemplify what I say. If they have created 
 anything new, how is it that their art is exactly like our 
 own? Who could tell that George Eliot's novels are a 
 woman's writing, or that ' The Horse Fair ' was not 
 painted by a man? Women have not as yet been able to 
 
24 
 
 transfuse into art a trace of their sex; in other words, 
 they haven't been able to assume a point of view of their 
 own. For instance, no one will deny that woman's love 
 must be different from a man's ; and if that be so, George 
 Sand failed, for in no single instance did she paint wom- 
 an's love as different from what we conceive it to be. 
 And what splendid chances she missed. Female emotion 
 is an unknown quantity in art, but to analyse it an orig- 
 inal talent would be required, and that is what they have 
 not, and I'm afraid never will have. They arrange, ex- 
 plain, and expand, but they do not create; they do not 
 even develop a formula — they merely vulgarise it, fit it 
 for common use. They are not fathers in art or even 
 mothers." 
 
 " Quite so," exclaimed Frazer ; " and if all modern art 
 is sentimental, it is owing to women, whose one interest in 
 life is sentimentality. Sentimentality entered art in the 
 nineteenth century. Even Shelley could not escape from 
 it; his poetry is no more than loverisings thinly dis- 
 guised." 
 
 " But don't you think love beautiful ? " asked Lewis. 
 " How could anyone write poetry without it? It is the 
 soul of poetry. Even Swinburne, whom you so much ad- 
 mire, writes constantly about love." 
 
 " Never ! " said Frazer. " It would puzzle you to dis- 
 cover a trace of sentiment in his poetry unless, perhaps, 
 in the poem entitled, ' The Leper ' ; but then it was a leper 
 who was sentimental." 
 
 The conversation turned on women, and everyone, in- 
 cluding the academy students, who spoke to each other, 
 explained to his neighbour what his individual opinions 
 were upon the subject. Lewis believed in passion, eter- 
 nal devotion, and, above all, fidelity. He could not un- 
 derstand the sin of unfaithfulness; without truth there 
 could not be love, and how a man could make love to his 
 friend's wife passed his comprehension. Frazer declared 
 
25 
 
 that in that respect only he had never feared his friends, 
 and Thompson vowed that an artist cannot do better than 
 to marry his cook : he makes sure of his servant's honesty, 
 and, who knows, finds a good model in her when the 
 dishes have been washed up after dinner. " Now, Eliza ! 
 as soon as you've put the coffee on the table get your 
 clothes off; I shall be in the studio in five minutes." 
 
 Lewis, indignant, cited a number of successful painters 
 and authors who had devoted their lives to love as well 
 as to art, his remarks drawing forth a long discussion 
 regarding the rival merits of Michael Angelo and 
 Raphael, Wordsworth and Shelley. At last the conver- 
 sation returned to its starting-point, and the possibility 
 of creating a new aestheticism was again under dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 " I'm weary of argument," said Thompson ; " people 
 won't understand or can't understand, and yet the whole 
 question is as simple as A B C." 
 
 " Well, what is your A B C ? " asked an academy 
 student. 
 
 " This," replied Thompson : " ancient art was not, and 
 modern art is, based upon logic. Our age is a logical one, 
 and our art will not be able to hold aloof any longer from 
 the general movement. Already the revolution is visible 
 everywhere. It accomplishes nothing in music that it 
 does not do in literature ; nothing in literature that it does 
 not do in painting. The novelist is gaining the day for 
 the study of the surroundings ; the painter for atmospheric 
 effects ; and the musician will carry the day for melodious 
 uninterrupted deductions, for free harmony, which is the 
 atmosphere of music." 
 
 This profession of faith touched the heart of a musi- 
 cian who had joined them, and he exclaimed: "Just so; 
 and yet it is impossible to explain to people that that is 
 Wagner's whole principle." 
 
 There being no other musician present, the conversa- 
 
26 
 
 Hon went back to the novel, and somebody asked Harding 
 why he always chose such unpleasant subjects. 
 
 " We do not always choose what you call unpleasant 
 subj ects, but we try to go to the roots of things ; and the 
 basis of life being material and not spiritual, the analyst 
 inevitably finds himself, sooner or later, handling what 
 this sentimental age calls coarse. But, like Thompson, 
 I'm weary of the discussion. If your stomach will not 
 stand the crudities of the moral dissecting-room, read 
 verse; but don't try to distort an art into something it is 
 not, and cannot be. The novel, if it be anything, is con- 
 temporary history, an exact and complete reproduction 
 of social surroundings; the novel is, in a word, environ- 
 ment. The poem, on the other hand, is an abstraction, 
 and bears the same relation to the novel as the rich, ripe 
 fruit which you relish when your hunger is satisfied does 
 to the roast beef." 
 
 " Believe before it is too late," exclaimed Frazer, 
 warmly, to the academy students ; " the die has been 
 cast; what has to come will come. It will not be Mr. 
 Hilton's Venus, nor Mr. Baring's pretty mothers, that 
 will retard the coming of the modern art. A bombshell 
 is about to break, and you open your umbrellas ; but have 
 a care, the bombshell will destroy without mercy all 
 things, both the small and great, that oppose it. I say 
 this as much for Mr. Hilton as for Mr. Baring, as much 
 for Mr. Channel, as much for Mr. John Wright and Mr. 
 Arthur Hollwood — I say it for all who aspire to live in 
 the future." 
 
 This speech, which was given with all the vigour of a 
 prophecy, threw a chill on the conversation. Some tit- 
 tered at the enthusiast's vehemence ; Thompson and Hard- 
 ing testified in a few words their approval of the opin- 
 ions expressed. Lewis, who only half understood, and 
 was possessed of a strong prejudice against all sudden 
 events, felt uneasy at the prospect of bombshells against 
 
27 
 
 whose fury umbrellas would prove of no avail. At the 
 end of an uneasy silence everybody began to speak quietly 
 to his neighbour of the quality of the whisky and the dis- 
 agreeableness of the weather, until the conversation 
 turned on Bendish. He was criticised and defended, 
 " good for a ' quid ' or a ' thin 'un.' " 
 
 " He'll always buy at a price, and we want more men 
 like him," was Frazer's remark. But Lewis, who remem- 
 bered his last visit to Fitzroy Square, was of a different 
 opinion, and he wished that Frazer would cease to pro- 
 pound theories, commercial or aesthetic, and allow him to 
 ask Thompson what his opinion really was about Mrs. 
 Bentham and the decorations. 
 
 " An adulterous horizon opened up before me the mo- 
 ment you told us of his visit to Sussex," Thompson said. 
 
 Lewis resented this criticism, and seeing that the 
 chances of finding a sympathetic listener were becoming 
 smaller and smaller, he began to think of going. It was 
 just seven o'clock; Gwynnie would be due at half -past; 
 he could just manage to get home in time to meet her. 
 So, bidding his friends good-bye, he started off at a sharp 
 pace, not staying his steps till he came to the Waterloo 
 Road. Three days ago there was not one among the 
 many that lived behind that long line of dismal windows 
 with whom he would not have changed places; now he 
 pitied them. Yesterday he had been one of them; to-day 
 he knew her, and never again would he see the shop with 
 the old iron and china piled about the walls. All this 
 had gone by for ever and he walked so enrapt in his 
 dream that he forgot to speak to Dinah, and asked his 
 landlady abruptly if Miss Lloyd had come in, and on 
 being told she had not, he opened his window, and rest- 
 ing his arms on the wall fell to thinking of the fine fortune 
 that had befallen him. He was going away to decorate a 
 ballroom in a country-house standing, no doubt, in the 
 middle of some great park. He had often seen gate 
 
28 
 
 lodges, and wondered what the houses were like that 
 stood at the end of the long drives; and now he was 
 going to live in one of these houses among rich furniture, 
 tall pictures, and a pack of men-servants — butlers, valets, 
 and footmen; on every landing there would be house- 
 maids, and outside there would be gardeners and grooms 
 and coachmen; and when his day's work was done he 
 would walk out on the terraces to meet Mrs. Bentham, 
 who . . . 
 
 The dream he was weaving suddenly fell into little 
 pieces; it was only a dream, for how could he go and 
 live in that house? He had only three shirts, a couple 
 of pairs of old trousers, and the cracked pair of shoes 
 he stood up in. Even the servants were better dressed 
 than he, and they would laugh at his clothes and talk 
 about them in the servants' hall. But he would not be 
 there to hear them laugh; he could not imagine himself 
 dining in the servants' hall, nor yet with Mrs. Bentham; 
 but in the housekeeper's room, perhaps, for there would 
 be a housekeeper. If he only had money to buy a pair 
 of boots and some socks, for his hardly held together. 
 He had no collars, and he needed neckties. At least ten 
 pounds would be required. Ten pounds represented a 
 fortune to him, and he asked himself where he could get 
 ten pounds. Carver might advance the money; if he 
 didn't what would become of him? He would continue 
 in his life of poverty in the room above the hardware 
 shop, painting small pictures which he might sell some- 
 times, and which more often he would find himself unable 
 to sell. A life of rags, of hunger, of cold, and, of all, a 
 life of solitude. 
 
 But what had become of Gwynnie? She was very late 
 coming home this evening. 
 
29 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 ON leaving Pall Mall Mrs. Bentham drove to see her 
 father, who lay bedridden in a large bleak house in the 
 neighbourhood of Cavendish Square. She was an only 
 child and had been in charge of all his properties for 
 many years, paying his bills and carrying out his wishes 
 regarding new plantations and the different structural 
 alterations that he dreamed in his wheel-chair, his wig 
 on a small table and a napkin on his lap. On seeing his 
 daughter he put on his wig and called to the servant to 
 take away what he was eating, and remembered the ball- 
 room — his last whim. 
 
 " I wonder, my dear Lucy," he said pettishly, " you 
 don't find some artist to do those decorations: you know 
 I want to have that room finished." 
 
 " My dear father, the room has been painted in light 
 blue and straw colour." 
 
 " I told you," said the old man joyfully, " that that 
 was the right colour, and you wouldn't believe me. I 
 hope it is a light blue turning to mauve. If you have 
 carried out my idea, it will be the prettiest room in Sus- 
 sex. I shall make an effort and try and get down 
 there when the decorations are done; but you must 
 see about an artist to do the pictures — why, there are 
 dozens of clever young men starving about London who 
 would do them. Can't that man, Mr. Carver, whom you 
 are always talking about, find you one ? " 
 
 " It is curious," answered Mrs. Bentham reflectively, 
 " you should speak of it, for not half an hour ago Mr. 
 Carver introduced me to a young man who he said would 
 do the work splendidly." 
 
 " Then why don't you have him down to do it ? " asked 
 the old man. " I may go off any day, and I want to see 
 
30 
 
 that room finished before I die; it is really very selfish 
 of you." 
 
 Mrs. Bentham assured him that there was not the 
 slightest chance of his dying for many a year, and that 
 she would be very glad to have the young man down to do 
 the decorations; but, as she was staying there at present, 
 she did not see how it was to be done — unless, indeed, 
 she asked him as a visitor. 
 
 "Why not ask him as a visitor? What is the objec- 
 tion? Does he drop his h's, or are you afraid of your 
 servants ? " 
 
 " No, he doesn't drop his h's. I was only thinking 
 that people might begin to make remarks." 
 
 "And what if they do? The world is always making 
 remarks. You will see to it, Lucy, won't you? " 
 
 " I will, father, I will." 
 
 " And return at once," he called back as she was pass- 
 ing out of the door to go to Mr. Carver and to tell him 
 to write to the young man immediately. She had, in her 
 father's desire to see the ballroom finished, an excuse for 
 asking Mr. Seymour to Claremont House, and one which 
 her cousin, Susan Thorpe, would find it hard to gainsay. 
 But then there were the county people to be taken into 
 consideration; and when she thought of Lewis's compro- 
 mising face, she heard a thousand disagreeable remarks 
 and petty sarcasms ringing in her ears. She changed her 
 position nervously in the brougham, and apostrophised 
 the injustice of the world's opinion and the falseness of 
 a woman's position in modern society, finding, every in- 
 stant, a new reason for taking her father's advice. She 
 remembered that Mr. Seymour spoke like a gentleman. 
 The stories she had heard of young men who die for the 
 want of a friend, of a helping hand, unknown, on the 
 bosom, as it were, of a million beings, in the middle of a 
 crowd weary of the gold they do not know what to do 
 with, thronged her mind; and, irritated by the thought 
 
81 
 
 that he might be one of those miserable ones who starve 
 while the person who wishes to succour them is consid- 
 ering the most proper way of extending his or her friendly 
 hand, she called to her coachman to drive to Bond Street, 
 resolved, if the references were satisfactory, to give him 
 the decorations to do. 
 
 "Is Mr. Carver in?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am " ; and Mr. Carver came forth. 
 
 " I've decided," she said. 
 
 " I'm very glad to hear it, for I'm sure you have done 
 the right thing. If he only gets a chance. If his luck 
 be not against him. Luck, you know, Mrs. Ben- 
 tham " 
 
 " But who is this young man ? " she asked. 
 
 Regarding Lewis Seymour's antecedents Mr. Carver 
 had little information to supply, but he threw himself at 
 once into the Napoleonic pose, and talked just as if he 
 had known Lewis in his cradle. Lewis was the son of a 
 country doctor in Essex; both his parents were dead, and 
 he had come to London to seek his fortune. So much 
 Mr. Carver had found out, for he found out something 
 concerning everybody he was ever brought in contact 
 with; and on this slight knowledge he embroidered in- 
 geniously till Mrs. Bentham decided that Lewis should 
 be sent down next Thursday to Sussex, Mr. Carver 
 charging himself with all the arrangements. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 " A LETTER for you, Mr. Seymour." It was from Mr. 
 Carver, asking him to call about eleven, and by taking 
 a hansom he would only be able to get to Mr. Carver's 
 in time. It never would do to miss that appointment; 
 besides, Bond Street was on the way; he would go on to 
 Regent Street afterwards and try to find out what had 
 
32 
 
 become of Gwynnie— it was only a question of five min- 
 utes' difference; Mr. Carver would not keep him longer. 
 He must know his fate. 
 
 His fate was to hear that it was all arranged: he was 
 to go down to Claremont House the day after to-morrow, 
 to stop there until he had finished the decorations — a 
 three months' job, for which he would receive two hun- 
 dred pounds. 
 
 Mr. Carver, in the Napoleonic pose, watched his aston- 
 ishment with a tender interest akin to that which an in- 
 ventor takes in his new patent. 
 
 " But who is Mrs. Bentham? You say that she is sep- 
 arated from her husband? " asked Lewis, emboldened a 
 little by his success. 
 
 " One of the biggest swells in London, my dear boy. 
 I can tell you 'twas a lucky day for you when you put 
 your nose into my shop." 
 
 Mr. Carver had no doubt that in the course of this 
 adventure something would occur which would enable him 
 to turn the weaknesses of human nature to his profit. He 
 did not know what, but he was sure that something would 
 happen. Something always did; at least, that was his 
 experience of life. The only thing of which he was un- 
 certain was Lewis's power of restraint, of conducting 
 himself at Claremont House properly. Therefore, with 
 the air of one who has never spoken to anything less than 
 a baronet, Mr. Carver proceeded to give Lewis what he 
 considered many useful hints as to how he should behave 
 himself. He told him that he would meet all the best 
 people, who would tear him to pieces as monkeys would 
 a newspaper; but to be forewarned is to be forearmed, 
 and Mr. Carver advised him to be very reserved, and, 
 above all, very polite to everybody — from the lap-dog 
 upwards. 
 
 It was part of Lewis's nature to believe that women 
 were always in love, and he tried to find out cautiously 
 
33 
 
 what opinion Mr. Carver held on the matter of Mrs. Ben- 
 tham's affections. But Mr. Carver only eyed him sharply, 
 and advised him to be very careful, to look before he 
 leaped, and, better still, not to leap at all, but to let 
 things untie themselves gradually; and, as a trainer gives 
 the jockey the final instructions, he explained to Lewis 
 the perils he must avoid, and the circumstances he must 
 take advantage of. 
 
 As he told him of the grand people he would meet at 
 Claremont House, Lewis looked in despair at his broken 
 boots and stained trousers, till at last, interrupting the 
 list of grand names with which the dealer was baptising 
 him, he asked boldly for a small advance of money. 
 
 " Of course — of course ; I see," replied Mr. Carver, 
 looking him up and down. 
 
 Lewis thought the inspection rude, but forgave it when 
 he was handed five ten-pound notes. 
 
 Then, in his turn, Lewis looked Mr. Carver up and 
 down, from the large plaid trousers to the red cravat — 
 an attention which put the dealer in a good temper for 
 the rest of the day, it not occurring to him that the painter 
 might be looking to see what to avoid rather than what to 
 copy. 
 
 And then, after having signed a bill, and listened to 
 a little more advice on the subject of dress, Lewis was 
 free to call a hansom and drive to Regent Street. She 
 had been at work all the day before: he drew a deep 
 breath of relief. There was no longer any reason for 
 supposing she had committed suicide. Still, it was ex- 
 traordinary she had not returned home; and he continued 
 to question the forewoman until she would listen to him 
 no longer ; all she knew was that Miss Lloyd had been at 
 work yesterday, and had gone away with a lady friend. 
 
 " But do you know her friend's address ? " insisted 
 Lewis ; " I shall be so much obliged — — " 
 
34 
 
 " I assure you I haven't the least idea, but if you will 
 leave a message or a letter, it shall be given to Miss 
 Lloyd." 
 
 Lewis asked her to say he had called, and, with a sense 
 of having done his duty, drove off, remembering that 
 Gwynnie, after all, was her own mistress, and had a right 
 to hide herself if she pleased. Anyhow, he was sure of 
 one thing: she had not committed suicide, and, comfort- 
 ing himself with the assurance, he drove to a tailor's. 
 
 All that day and the next were spent buying shirts, 
 coats, trousers, collars, neckties and boots, and as he 
 walked along the streets he was on the lookout to see 
 how the upper ten thousand were dressed, and how their 
 coats were buttoned, and the kind of scarves they wore, 
 and tried to find out what the differences were that dis- 
 tinguished them from the middle classes. 
 
 It was necessary for him to know these things, for he 
 felt he would be seriously compromising his position if he 
 went down to Mrs. Bentham's dressed like a shop-boy. 
 
 He fancied that Mr. Carver had hinted that it was not 
 merely his talents as an artist that had induced Mrs. 
 Bentham to give him the commission to decorate the ball- 
 room, and it afforded him much pleasure to hope that she 
 was interested in him. 
 
 The time at his disposal necessitated orders to Mr. 
 Halet instead of to Mr. Johnson; but, his figure being 
 well-proportioned, he was easy to fit, and the clothes, 
 with a few alterations, almost satisfied him. He bought 
 two suits of country clothes — short jackets and coloured 
 trousers — to which he added a velvet coat for painting in. 
 Evening clothes were indispensable, and these, at least, 
 he would have liked to have gotten from a first-class 
 tailor, but it was not possible: he had to start the follow- 
 ing day, and had to buy everything, from a portmanteau 
 to a toothbrush. There was not a minute to spare. At 
 
35 
 
 the last moment, when everything was ordered, he found 
 himself obliged to start off again to buy some silk shirts. 
 " Silk shirts go with a velvet jacket," he muttered, as he 
 hurried west again. A great deal of money was also 
 spent in scent, powder, nail-polishers. Although he had 
 had but little opportunity in his life of becoming ac- 
 quainted with such luxuries, he divined their uses as if by 
 instinct, and his white, feminine hands, as they strayed 
 over the shop counters, seemed to love the touch of all 
 things connected with the toilette-table. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding his occupations, he found time to 
 inquire again at the shop in Regent Street after Gwyn- 
 nie. She had not returned, nor had her friend; and 
 Lewis went away thinking he ought to take more trouble 
 to find her, but he assured himself that time was lacking; 
 his hours were numbered. It was unfortunate, but what 
 was he to do? Over and over again he asked himself the 
 question. 
 
 " You'll tell Miss Lloyd, Mrs. Cross, that I was sorry 
 not to see her before leaving? " 
 
 " And your address, sir ? " 
 
 " I'll write — I'll write," he said, and as he drove away, 
 Mrs. Cross stood at the door and followed the hansom 
 with her eyes. 
 
 " I'm sure, 'Arry, that young gentleman was someone 
 great, or will become someone great." 
 
 'Arry did not answer; he went on arranging the jugs 
 and basins and tin saucepans in his window, so as to 
 attract his customers, evidently thinking that his wife's 
 prediction did not call for reply. 
 
 Dinah, however, left off teasing the yellow cat, and, 
 hiding her golden curls in her mother's coarse apron, be- 
 gan to cry. 
 
36 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 " WHAT an extraordinary adventure ! " Lewis said to 
 himself, as he leaned back in the comfort of a first-class 
 carriage; " I wonder what father would think of it all, 
 if he could only know ! " And Lewis continued to con- 
 sider what his father's opinion would be of his son if he 
 were sitting opposite in the railway carriage, hearing 
 Lewis telling that he was going to stay with a grand lady 
 in Sussex and decorate her ballroom. He was afraid his 
 father would hardly appreciate the adventure, so dead 
 to all aesthetic interest was he, and Lewis fell to thinking 
 what might be the spiritual personality of the tall, gaunt 
 man with bristly hair who, in Lewis's childhood, was so 
 much appreciated at Santry as a healer, and about whom 
 a legend had collected because of a laboratory he had 
 built and in which he had wasted a fortune. He might 
 even say two fortunes, for his father had brought to 
 Santry some money of his own, and it was not until he 
 had spent all his money upon chemical experiments that 
 he had thought of a rich marriage as a way out of his 
 difficulties. He did not like to think that his mother had 
 been married for her money, but he could understand 
 that a man absorbed by his desire to solve a chemical 
 problem would not hesitate to help himself out of his diffi- 
 culties by a money marriage ; and his mother had five thou- 
 sand pounds on her wedding day, a sum of money that 
 the Oylers had given with reluctance, they being prudent 
 business folk and full of suspicion of anyone who had not 
 only wasted money in fruitless experiments, but time that 
 he might have devoted to his patients. " So they were 
 always insinuating," Lewis said to himself as he watched 
 the country passing, trees advancing and retiring, till he 
 again took up the thread of his life, which always seemed 
 to him a magical skein which some mystic hand was weav- 
 
37 
 
 ing into a wonderful pattern. " If father knew that I 
 was going down to decorate Mrs. Bentham's ballroom, 
 and that I met her at the moment of my greatest need in 
 a picture dealer's shop, he could not fail to remember 
 how he jumped out of a chair in which he had been sit- 
 ting munching a cigar for more than an hour in silence, 
 till the sight of me painting at the table filled him with 
 such rage that he could not contain himself; and he 
 seized my poor little paintings, crumpled them up and 
 threw them into the fire. Why, he didn't know himself, 
 possibly because some experiments had failed." 
 
 Lewis would almost have liked to call his father back 
 into life, so that he might see that his painting was likely 
 to turn out more successful than the chemistry — he would 
 have liked to have got one back on his father, " but if I 
 were to call him back into life," he murmured to him- 
 self, " it would be difficult to know what to do with him 
 afterwards: to call him out of the grave merely to tell 
 him that I'm getting on would seem to him something 
 more than cynical." And, ashamed of himself, he began 
 to watch the rolling hills and woodlands breaking up into 
 fields one after the other, with trees starting out of the 
 hedgerows so beautifully that even those who have lived 
 in southern England all their lives never look upon it 
 without thinking how much more fortunate we are to live 
 here than in any other country ! 
 
 As soon as the fields and the hedgerows were blotted 
 out of sight by some high embankment or by the disap- 
 pearance of all country as the train rushed into a tunnel, 
 Lewis's thoughts returned easily to his early life, and he 
 thought of the fateful day when his father had been 
 found dead in the laboratory. Suicide was spoken of, 
 and it might well be that his father had thought that his 
 death would be the greatest benefit he could confer upon 
 his wife and son for, truth to tell, they had never been 
 what people call happy together. Lewis had admired his 
 
38 
 
 father, that tall, gaunt man, who spent his evenings and a 
 great part of his nights in his laboratory engaged in fan- 
 tastic attempts to solve problems that might never be 
 solved; an alchemist of old time his father appeared to 
 him, a romantic figure, but he had made their lives cheer- 
 less and lonely beyond measure, and " if he had lived he 
 would have insisted upon my entering a bank," and he 
 doubted his strength to resist his father. " His death set 
 me free to follow my painting, and it seems to be leading 
 me into a fair prospect. If that woman were to fall in love 
 with me ! " Such good fortune as this seemed to him 
 more than he could hope for, a tale straight out of the 
 " Arabian Nights." But why should he not be the hero 
 of a story; and to convince himself that this might be 
 possible he looked again into his life and remembered 
 how he had started off from home, the day after his 
 father's funeral, to paint all the windmills and willow 
 banks under which donkeys are tethered so that they may 
 be painted; and when a great number of these had been 
 turned into water-colours he had ventured into a park 
 where he had no right to go and had encountered a very 
 stern man therein, the gamekeeper, who told him that 
 if he were to catch him there again he would have him 
 up before the magistrate. He had been bidden to take 
 up his water-colours and be off, a command he had has- 
 tened to obey; the man accompanied him to the gate to 
 see him off the premises, but on their way thither the lady 
 of all the fair domain passed them, driving her cream- 
 coloured ponies, and, noticing Lewis's picturesque ap- 
 pearance, asked her gamekeeper to tell her who he was; 
 and on his story being made known to her she said : " You 
 are free to come into my park to paint whenever you 
 please; and will you, when you have finished some 
 sketches, bring them up to my house? " — an invitation he 
 had hastened to avail himself of. And he remembered 
 her admiration of the group of beech trees with wood 
 
39 
 
 pigeons picking at the mast. She had liked his bridge 
 and his portrait of her gardens ; and after her commenda- 
 tions everybody within ten miles of Santry bought some- 
 thing from him, believing him to be for sure a future 
 Academician. 
 
 The years between his father's and his mother's deaths 
 were living years. His father's death had given him 
 life; but the houses he was invited to and the pleasant 
 things he heard said about himself were not more pleas- 
 ant than his evenings sitting by the fireside with his 
 mother relating his adventures to her: a pleasant and 
 amiable springtide were these two years, and when his 
 mother fell ill and died he remembered that he learnt 
 what grief is. It was only natural that it should be so, 
 for his mother's character was in harmony with his; a 
 pretty mother, truly, a kind mother, a winsome mother, 
 and he recalled the tenderness with which they used to 
 bid each other good-night at the foot of the staircase. 
 She was a bit of an artist; and he fell to thinking of a 
 certain water-colour she had done. It used to hang in 
 the parlour on the right of the fireplace — a view of the 
 green, with an old house, since pulled down, in the fore- 
 ground. Her love of art was another tie that bound 
 them, added to which was the sense that in losing her he 
 was losing everything. If she had lived she might have 
 discovered that the corn business in Santry was not pros- 
 pering, and have saved something out of the wreckage, 
 but he had no taste for business, and, believing that uncles 
 would not cheat their nephews, did not trouble to inquire 
 into his affairs, and the first he heard of his uncle's failure 
 was from the lawyer. A terrible reverse to hear of, that 
 one is penniless at the outset of one's career — penniless 
 all but three hundred and fifty pounds, all that remained 
 of a comfortable competence. But his pictures had been 
 bought by the entire countryside. The Essex Telegraph 
 had said he was a promising young artist, and, knowing 
 
40 
 
 nothing whatsoever of life, he had come to believe that 
 London would fall at the first sound of his clarion. The 
 head master of the Training School at Santry had not 
 altogether shared this belief, and Lewis smiled over his 
 memory of the letter that his first instructor in the art 
 of drawing and painting had given him to Thompson, a 
 painter who the head master said seemed to be coming 
 along. He had not seen anything of Thompson for many 
 years, but his name was often in the papers. He was 
 being talked of, and " The Moderns," too, were being 
 talked about — the new school, the training master ex- 
 plained, and Thompson, his old schoolmate, was at the 
 head of it. He did not know what his work was like, but 
 Thompson was a clever fellow, " and you'd do well to 
 look him up." Lewis could hear himself saying " The 
 Moderns " all the way up to London, and he had gone 
 to see Thompson the morning after his arrival, expecting 
 to find nymphs bathing in his studio, or fleeing from 
 fauns, or maybe a single figure loosening her girdle. He 
 hoped she would be loosening it for the pleasure of the 
 ardent youth fallen on his knees behind her; but instead 
 of nymphs he had been shown a picture of a housemaid 
 cleaning steps, her end turned towards him. And the 
 next picture that Thompson produced was of two acro- 
 bats in pink hose about to knit themselves into some 
 strange device or perhaps to spring from a trapeze. 
 Thompson had enjoyed his surprise, and Lewis remem- 
 bered with some acrimony Thompson's remark : " You ex- 
 pected to see nymphs ; well, all painters begin with 
 nymphs and a few end with housemaids." 
 
 "How can housemaids be turned into art?" was his 
 innocent question; and Thompson answered it: 
 
 " To Apollo all things are possible " — a saying that 
 seemed to savour of the Bible. It had left him asking 
 himself what Thompson meant, and afraid to untie the 
 parcel. But Thompson's bark was worse than his bite. 
 
41 
 
 " Your drawings," he said, " are what we call skilful, 
 and I've no doubt that any one of them will open the 
 doors of the Academy to you." 
 
 " But would you advise me to enter the Academy 
 schools ? " 
 
 " If your bias be for nymphs and satyrs, certainly; if 
 for housemaids, no." And this remark had confounded 
 him again. 
 
 He had never been able to bring himself to admire 
 Thompson's work, yet had never doubted that Thompson 
 was a clever man — a misdirected one, if you like, but 
 still a clever man, who, if he had applied himself to any 
 other art but painting, would have done well in it; for, 
 after all, his art is a search for the beautiful rather than 
 the curious. " But beauty is merely a convention, and 
 art is always seeking new conventions. A convention 
 wears out like a coat ; and before it begins to look thread- 
 bare, one must look out for a new garment. A jacket is 
 better than an old coat," Thompson would say; and, of 
 course, everything can be argued. A truthful story is a 
 well-told story, a lying story is an ill-told story; but he 
 had heard enough of that kind of thing, and was not to 
 be taken in by it any more. And he fell to thinking that 
 it was partly through listening to Thompson and that 
 idiot Frazer that he had been brought to the Waterloo 
 Boad, and very nearly to suicide. He would have come 
 to suicide long ago if it hadn't been for old Bendish. 
 Bendish had, however, failed him at last, and if it hadn't 
 been for Gwynnie he would have had to take the plunge. 
 If it had not been for Gwynnie he would be now at the 
 bottom of the river, but corpses float and some water- 
 man would have fished him up. He would be lying now 
 in the mortuary with a trickle of water flowing over his 
 face: a horrid face presented itself before his imagina- 
 tion, and to rid himself of the spectacle he began to argue 
 that Thompson might very well choose such a subject 
 
42 
 
 for his next Academy picture. Well, he preferred 
 nymphs, and was going to paint them — satyrs and nymphs 
 and Cupids and garlands, masks and arrows, while Gwyn- 
 nie's fate was to remain in London striving after fifteen 
 shillings or a pound a week. He was sorry, but he 
 couldn't hold himself in any way responsible. Why had 
 she run away? All the same, it seemed hard to think 
 that she who had done so much should be left behind. 
 But if she hadn't run away he would not be going to 
 Claremont House, and to marry her might condemn him 
 to the Waterloo Road for all the days of his life. Per- 
 haps all had happened for the best, and he watched the 
 rich landscape fleeting by till a stately mansion appeared 
 among the trees. He was going to some such mansion. 
 The landscape in his dreams unfolded like a scroll. The 
 footman who met him at the station confronted him like 
 a dream, and the brougham into which he was invited to 
 enter was another dream. And he sat on the blue cush- 
 ions like one in a dream, afraid to think lest thought 
 might disperse his dream. But he was wide awake and 
 was sitting in her brougham ! Her skirts had rustled in 
 it and her feet had rested on the footstool before him, 
 and in a sudden divination of her body, the intoxicating 
 odour of his future life rose to his head like the per- 
 fume of a flower crushed and smelt in the hollow of the 
 hand. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 A LONG, narrow, grey building, pierced with many win- 
 dows, a sort of Noah's ark; and at the end of a long ter- 
 race two ladies leaning over the balustrade. The sun 
 was setting, and the carriage drew up at the front door: 
 a small, unpretending entrance, unapproached by steps, 
 and opening into a passage rather than a hall. The foot- 
 man took down Lewis's portmanteau, and the butler un- 
 
43 
 
 packed it for him, putting his morning suits, shirts, col- 
 lars, and pocket-handkerchiefs away in a large mahog- 
 any wardrobe, and laying out his evening clothes with 
 wonderful precision on the clear-curtained iron bed. 
 While he did so, Lewis sat at the window watching the 
 ladies walking across the terrace towards the house. The 
 evening had grown chilly, and they had drawn their 
 shawls more tightly round their shoulders. 
 
 Then the servant brought him some hot water, and 
 told him that dinner would be ready in half an hour. 
 If he would like a bath, he would find the bathroom next 
 door, the first door on the left; and, determined to enjoy 
 himself, he washed, dried, powdered, and scented himself 
 with care, and, full of misgiving, tried on the evening 
 clothes. His trousers seemed to him too wide, the waist- 
 coat seemed to him vulgar, but he could only hope that 
 no one would suspect they were ready-made; and it was 
 with a sense of delight that he drew on his silk socks, 
 tied his white necktie, and brushed — standing before the 
 tall glass — his rich brown hair. 
 
 At last he was dressed; the footman led him into the 
 drawing-room, and there he found Mrs. Bentham, who 
 received him with a smile, and who introduced him to 
 Mrs. Thorpe, her cousin. . . . 
 
 Dinner was announced, and Mrs. Bentham asked him 
 to take in Mrs. Thorpe. He had never been anywhere 
 except to a few luncheon parties in Essex, and was con- 
 scious of Mrs. Thorpe's eyes, and fancied she would 
 make use of any little slip to his disadvantage; so he 
 did not take the bread out of his napkin till he had seen 
 Mrs. Bentham take hers, and during the whole meal he 
 ate and drank after first observing one of the ladies. 
 
 When the moment came for the ladies to rise from the 
 table, Lewis did not know how to act; he had heard that 
 gentlemen stopped behind, but was not sure if the rule 
 applied when there was but one. Mrs. Bentham, as if 
 
44 
 
 she guessed his embarrassment, asked him to follow them 
 into the drawing-room, unless he wished to smoke. " My 
 cousin doesn't like the smell of tobacco, but you can 
 smoke in the library." He did want to smoke, but was 
 delighted to say he didn't, for he dreaded the eye of the 
 butler, knowing that that splendid man would read him 
 like a book. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe sat silent in her wicker-work chair behind 
 a screen, which protected her from the draught ; and once 
 more Lewis felt that she was at least a potential enemy, 
 and that he must win her over to his side. But he was 
 wrong in supposing that Mrs. Thorpe was his enemy. 
 The old lady was merely a little alarmed at what she 
 could not but consider eccentric behaviour on the part of 
 her cousin, and could not accept Mr. Vicome's desire to 
 have the decorations finished as a very valid reason for 
 picking up a young man and bringing him down to stay 
 with them. She thought the decorations of the ballroom 
 should have been put into the hands of a respectable 
 firm, who would send down a man who would find a lodg- 
 ing in the inn. What did the poor old gentleman want 
 with decorations? she asked herself. He could not even 
 come and see them when they were done. But there was 
 no use thinking of that now the young man was here, and 
 her hope was that his appearance, which was startling, 
 would not create any scandal. He seemed innocent 
 enough ; and if he did not stay too long all might be well. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe was dressed entirely in black cashmere, 
 which fell loosely about her spare figure. She wore a 
 white cap, under which appeared some thin white hair, 
 suggestive of baldness. The arms were long and bony, 
 and the brown hands were contracted and crooked — in 
 fact, they seemed like a knitting-machine perpetually in 
 motion; it was the exception to see them still. 
 
 As she took from time to time a needle out of her cap, 
 she would look from Lewis to her cousin, and then her 
 
45 
 
 eyes would return to her stocking. But at last her cu- 
 riosity to know who Lewis was, tempted her out of her 
 silence, and as an opportunity presented itself, she asked 
 him some questions about his early life, and, knowing it 
 would be dangerous to tell lies, he gave a pleasant ver- 
 sion of the truth, telling of the straits his father's im- 
 providence had reduced them to, and how he, Lewis, 
 had lived all alone with his mother till she died. His 
 uncle had failed at the same time, and then there was 
 nothing for it but to go to London with three hundred 
 and fifty pounds and " earn my living." 
 
 The picture he gave of how he had lived with his 
 mother recalled to Mrs. Thorpe her son's childhood and 
 early manhood, and her eyes filled with tears of pity for 
 Lewis's loneliness. 
 
 And Mrs. Bentham, too, listened to the story, inter- 
 rupting it to ask a question from time to time, her attitude 
 growing more abandoned as she remembered her own 
 life: a husband whose vices had forced her in the third 
 year after their marriage to ask for a separation. She 
 might have had a divorce, for her husband had on more 
 than one occasion used violence towards her, but as she 
 never expected to wish to marry again, and as separation 
 was more favourably viewed by society at large, she had 
 accepted the equivocal position of living apart from her 
 husband; and she remembered how she had persuaded 
 Susan Thorpe to come and live with her. 
 
 And, believing that she was asked to share, not re- 
 linquish, the quietude she cherished, Mrs. Thorpe had 
 consented to come and live with her cousin, whom she 
 believed to be broken-hearted. 
 
 But it is only age that can enjoy solitude — youth can 
 but coquette with it; and as the memories of her past life 
 faded, Mrs. Bentham commenced to weary of Claremont 
 House. She was grateful to her cousin for the sacrifice 
 she made in coming to live with her, but she felt that she 
 
46 
 
 must see people: the world drew her like a magnet, and 
 her desire to return to the world was hastened by outward 
 events. Her father gave over to her the control of the 
 Claremont House property, and on her uncle's death, 
 which occurred about the same time, she inherited five 
 thousand a year, strictly tied up, and independent of her 
 husband's control. She could not spend her income living 
 alone with Mrs. Thorpe and giving tea to an occasional 
 visitor. She had taken a house in London, but after half 
 a dozen seasons she began to weary of acquaintances, and 
 friendship was impossible. Love she had not dared, and 
 had sent all the men away as soon as they began to speak 
 of love. 
 
 Lewis continued to tell how he had come to London 
 to seek his fortune, drawing a poetic picture of the work 
 he had done, hinting at the straits he had found himself 
 in. He had very often not known where the next meal 
 was to come from. At these words Mrs. Thorpe stopped 
 knitting, her hands fell on her knees, and she looked at 
 him, carried away by his story. Mrs. Bentham thought 
 she had never heard anybody talk so attractively. He 
 was a man of genius who required protection, and she felt 
 an immense desire rise up in her mind to protect, to 
 help, to watch, and to guide him towards that success 
 of which he spoke so simply; it would be part of her- 
 self, part of her work, and if she lived to see him a great 
 man she would not have lived in vain. She did not reflect 
 that she was a young and handsome woman and that even 
 if she could content herself with this quasi-maternal feel- 
 ing, he, who was only ten or eleven years her junior, 
 would not accept what must seem to him either too much 
 or too little. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe, who had understood little of Lewis's talk 
 of " The Moderns," returned with interest to the story 
 of his early life, and asked him to tell her more about his 
 mother ; but Mrs. Bentham was too much oppressed with 
 
47 
 
 her thoughts to listen very attentively to the details of 
 the story, which she already knew in outline, so she let 
 them talk as they would, and every now and then the cur- 
 tains hlew out, filled with a hawthorn imperfumed breeze. 
 
 She thought of her childhood — of the time when she 
 used to cry for loneliness as she played with her toys in 
 the echoing stone passages. She considered the difference 
 it must make in a girl's existence to have a mother to con- 
 sult and to confide in. She recalled a hundred details 
 of her early life: her governesses, her aunt's reprimands 
 and her visits to the melancholy room where her father 
 sat in his wheel-chair. Her thoughts drifted, and she 
 passed on to the time when she was taken to her first ball. 
 How different it had been from what she had expected it 
 would be ! They had but few friends, and her relations 
 were all old people, at whose dinner-parties her frocks 
 and smiles had often seemed strangely out of place. And 
 it was at one of these dismal dinner-parties that she had 
 met Mr. Bentham — a good reason for remembering that 
 dinner-party — and mistaking him for an incarnation of 
 all that is noble and brilliant, she had married him — mar- 
 ried him, dreaming a girl's gay dream of lifelong purity 
 and love. 
 
 Her thoughts turned from the memory of her married 
 life, and as she sat staring into the shadows, which 
 struggled for mastery with the moonlight, she felt herself 
 falling into a delicious torpor. An immense temptation 
 seemed to float about the purple gloaming; a thousand 
 little wishes came into the twilight, but they disappeared 
 into the darkness as she tried to define them. At last the 
 sound of Lewis's voice addressing her broke the current 
 of her thoughts, and though she knew he had talked to 
 Mrs. Thorpe till he could talk no more, she did not grat- 
 ify him with her attention, but asked him if he could 
 sing. He did not wish to sing, but he had a light tenor 
 of which he was proud, though not unduly, and Mrs. 
 
48 
 
 Bentham played his accompaniments, till Mrs. Thorpe 
 put away her knitting. Mrs. Bentham had to accompany 
 her cousin, but when she bade Lewis good-night, a mutual 
 emotion interlocked their fingers for an instant. 
 
 " Breakfast will be at nine," she said, " and after 
 breakfast I'll explain my idea of the decorations, and 
 you'll tell me if I'm wrong." 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 HE entered his pleasant bedroom, and, remembering he 
 had never been in so pleasant a room before, he stopped, 
 for the chintz curtains rustled in the breeze that came 
 and went, filled with the scent of lilies. A moment after 
 it was the fragrant tobacco plant that enchanted him, and 
 after it came a mingling of scents so sweet and so over- 
 powering that he sank into a chair, asking himself if he 
 were sure that he was not enchanted. And for a long 
 while he sat, afraid to go to bed, for he could not put 
 aside altogether the dread that he might awake in the 
 Waterloo Road. If that were to happen he would walk 
 straight down to the river and drown, for after the dream 
 he was still dreaming he would not be able to endure 
 common life. But where was she? Lying awake, per- 
 haps, under a tester thinking of him, the brocaded cur- 
 tains falling in great folds over carved wreaths and Cu- 
 pids; or was she dreaming of him, her thick hair flung 
 over the pillow in disorder? If the mood were to take 
 her to come into his room, love would be wonderful in- 
 deed in the warmth of the fine scented linen ; and since so 
 many wonderful things had befallen, why not this last 
 miracle? He lay expectant for a while, and in a few 
 minutes was talking to a chamber-maid in Mrs. Ben- 
 tham's house, and she tempting him to leave Claremont 
 House and return with her to London to the shop in 
 
49 
 
 Waterloo Road; a faint dream from which he awoke sud- 
 denly, and, seeing the harmonious room about him, with 
 the moonlight coming through the flowered curtains, he 
 said : " It was only a dream after all — it was only a 
 dream ! But isn't Claremont House a dream ? " he asked 
 himself, and then fell asleep again among the smooth 
 white linen that lay in profusion about him, and did not 
 awake again till the door passing smoothly over the car- 
 pet awoke him. 
 
 The footman brought in a jug of hot water, and he 
 heard the man say that breakfast would be ready in half 
 an hour in the dining-room, but if he wished to have 
 breakfast in his room it would be brought up to him on a 
 tray. 
 
 At these words Lewis began to see himself as the real 
 hero of a fairy-tale, and, distracted with a hundred plans 
 for winning the sleeping beauty of the woods, he dressed 
 quickly, and found the ladies in the dining-room. Mrs. 
 Bentham, recovered from the languor of the night before, 
 fell to talking at once of the decorations, and his mood 
 being that of a lover, he could not fix his thoughts on the 
 principles of composition as they were known to the 
 Greek artists that had decorated Pompeii, at least not in 
 the dining-room and in front of Mrs. Thorpe. At last Mrs. 
 Bentham proposed to show him the ballroom which she 
 had been forced to build, for the old rooms were so small 
 that it was impossible for her to give a large party in 
 them. 
 
 " But are the walls prepared to receive paint ? " 
 
 She answered that they were, and they walked round 
 the room, Lewis falling in with Mrs. Bentham's idea that 
 what was required was a figure painted in the centre of 
 each panel, with an appropriate arrangement of leaves 
 and flowers encircling it. 
 
 But there was a choking sensation in his throat, and he 
 experienced much difficulty in answering all her questions. 
 
50 
 
 She seemed further from him than she had ever been be- 
 fore. " Was he losing her ? " he asked himself. " Has 
 she been thinking it over, saying to herself that she 
 brought me down here to paint pictures for her, and for 
 nothing else? " 
 
 They had been round the room two or three times, and 
 every panel had been discussed, and were standing by 
 the window engaged in admiring the view. 
 
 " Shall I show you the drawings I have collected for 
 the decorations ? " she said abruptly. 
 
 " I shall be very glad if you will, and together we 
 shall be able to choose those that seem most suitable." 
 So they went to the couch and took out of the portfolios 
 Venuses and Cupids to no end; masks, quivers, flowers, 
 tendrils, all kinds of fruit in profusion; and out of this 
 stock Mrs. Bentham proposed to select, and the whole 
 morning they sat side by side. 
 
 Sometimes they turned a batch of engravings over, be- 
 stowing on each a glance; sometimes they would linger 
 over and admire a bit of drawing or a lucky bit of com- 
 position; sometimes they would alight on a picture that 
 contained matter so suitable to their purpose that Lewis 
 would make a hasty arrangement on a sheet of Whatman's 
 paper with a pencil. Now and then a somewhat too 
 coarse revel of nymphs and satyrs would come up, and 
 Mrs. Bentham's remark, that while looking through these 
 engravings she felt on the brink of a precipice all the 
 time, seemed not altogether without warrant. " But de- 
 spite the danger we must continue our search," she said; 
 and before lunch she had made plain her ideas, and 
 chosen the drawings that she considered would be most 
 serviceable to him. 
 
 " Do you think you'll be able to carry it through? 
 What do you think ? " she said, and they stood looking at 
 each other. 
 
 " Carry it through ! " he cried. " Of course I shall, 
 
51 
 
 with your help " ; and he was almost glad when Mrs. 
 Bentham told him that she and Mrs. Thorpe were going 
 out to drive, and that he would have the whole after- 
 noon to consider his projects. 
 
 Although Nature meant him more for the lover than 
 the artist, she had not denied him a certain amount of 
 enthusiasm, and his fingers itched to cover the great hlond 
 panels with Cupids, masks, flowers, fruit, and wreaths. 
 
 And inspired by the desire of art for its own sake, and 
 urged by the desire to win a woman with his art, he 
 worked on till the light died, and the footman came to tell 
 him that dinner would be ready at eight, and it was now 
 half -past seven. 
 
 " Mrs. Bentham told me to tell you, sir, that she has 
 some company this evening." 
 
 " Why did she ask people to dinner ? " he wondered as 
 he went upstairs. " It looks as if she was afraid to be 
 alone with me. Or has she asked these people to dinner 
 to put me to the test, to find out how I appear to the 
 county? And, of course, if the county don't look favour- 
 ably upon me, I must be thrown over." 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 AN hour later he entered the drawing-room, and was 
 introduced to Lord Senton and Mr. Day, and when Mrs. 
 Bentham began to speak of the decorations Lewis felt 
 himself under the inquisition of the eyes of these two 
 gentlemen. He felt that Lord Senton looked upon him 
 as a tradesman, one who should have been sent to dine 
 in the housekeeper's room, one whose place was with the 
 upper servants. Mrs. Bentham, too, seemed to place 
 Lord Senton above him, and Day, the secretary, seemed 
 to him to enjoy his discomfiture. Never had he felt more 
 miserable than he did that evening; and his misery in- 
 
52 
 
 creased in his room, and it seemed to him that he would 
 not get any sleep that night, so keenly did he feel Mrs. 
 Bentham's cruelty. He was so unhappy at breakfast 
 next morning that he could not summon up courage to 
 ask Mrs. Bentham if she were coming into the ballroom, 
 and his heart misgave him when, on rising from the table, 
 she said: " I shall not see you this morning; I've much 
 business to attend to." That afternoon she went out 
 riding with Lord Senton. Lewis was disappointed, but 
 his work interested him, and it was exactly what he 
 could do best. His fluent talent combined easily nymphs, 
 Cupids, masks, and flowers, and at the end of his third 
 week he had finished his compositions. A scaffolding 
 was put up, and Mrs. Bentham declared herself ready to 
 superintend. 
 
 She had not been out to ride with Lord Senton for 
 some days, and when Mrs. Thorpe asked why, she 
 laughed and said she was a little wearied of him, and 
 did not wish to see him again for some time. " I've been 
 wondering what was the matter with you, Lucy," Mrs. 
 Thorpe said. " Never have I known you so irritable as 
 you have been for the last fortnight." 
 
 " Have I really been out of humour? I didn't notice 
 it," Mrs. Bentham answered, laughing. " Well, that 
 young lord is very monotonous, and the long stretches of 
 country looking so lovely set me thinking of my painting, 
 and is not this an occasion to return to it? I have neg- 
 lected it too long, and merely, you remember, dear, be- 
 cause I couldn't manage trees. But Mr. Seymour tells 
 me " 
 
 The women parted at the door of the ballroom, and 
 Lewis talked to her from his scaffolding. She chatted, 
 and laughed, and told stories. It amused her to talk to him 
 as he sat painting. Sometimes he would turn his back 
 on the great white wall, and sit facing her, smoking a 
 cigarette, while she told him some ridiculous story about 
 
53 
 
 Lord Senton, or asked him for advice about her drawing, 
 and during these conversations he was conscious that he 
 was advancing himself into intimate relations. She 
 thought him very handsome, and every day his drawings 
 revealed to her prospects of a genius that one day all the 
 world would acknowledge. 
 
 And it was about this time they began to speak of 
 what love is, and is not. It was Lucy that introduced 
 the subject oftenest, and it was she, whenever the 
 conversation seemed likely to take a serious turn, or be- 
 come personal, that changed the subject dexterously. 
 And so they were like friends who dared not venture on 
 the slightest liberty, but who showed by a thousand little 
 things that they longed to pass over all restrictions. 
 
 But if the mornings were pleasant, the evenings were 
 delightful; and while Mrs. Thorpe knitted, the lovers 
 (for they were already lovers in thought) sang together; 
 and if they were not singing they sat discussing painting 
 and literature. She had never been mentally intimate 
 with a man before, and it often seemed to her that a new 
 world was opening up into her view. 
 
 " To-morrow," she said, " I shall not see you in the 
 afternoon ; I must pay some visits " ; and there was an 
 accent of regret in her voice that alarmed her chaperon. 
 Lewis was, however, not displeased to devote an entire 
 afternoon to his work — an afternoon free from inter- 
 ruptions. He had that morning completed the composi- 
 tion destined to fill the panel above the chimney-piece — 
 a nymph seated high in a bower made of a few tendrils 
 and roses, with a ring of Cupids dancing round her to the 
 music of a reed flute which she played. As soon as 
 breakfast was over he set to work to lay in the face, 
 shoulders, and hair of the nymph, taking care to keep it 
 very light in tone. 
 
 He worked steadily as long as there was light, never 
 stopping but to light a cigarette. " Eight hours I've 
 
54 
 
 been working," he said to himself. " Eight hours upon 
 that scaffolding " ; and, feeling a little tired, he walked 
 on to the terrace and abandoned himself to the happy 
 consideration of his accomplishment till the carriages ap- 
 peared round a bend in the drive. 
 
 The ladies had paid several visits, and to their sur- 
 prise the whole county knew about the decorations, and 
 hoped that Mrs. Bentham would give a ball. 
 
 " So you will make the acquaintance of the whole 
 county, Mr. Seymour," Lucy said, laughing. " Every- 
 body has heard about you, and is looking forward to see- 
 ing you. Lord Senton has, I think, been abusing you to 
 Lady Marion. She told me he said he didn't like you, 
 and that there must be something nice about anything 
 that Lord Senton dislikes." 
 
 " But who is Lady Marion ? " Lewis asked, a little per- 
 plexed. 
 
 " The dearest old lady in the world ; very learned, and 
 very interested in art." 
 
 " But, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe, suddenly stopping 
 her knitting, " we have forgotten to tell him about Lady 
 Helen. Do you know, Mr. Seymour, that you will see 
 one of the most beautiful girls in the world? All St. 
 Petersburg went mad about her last season. You aTe 
 sure to fall in love with her." 
 
 Lewis said he would be enchanted to see the most beau- 
 tiful girl in the world, but hoped he would not fall in 
 love with her. " That would be a calamity," he added. 
 
 " Why would it be a calamity ? " Lucy asked. 
 
 Before Lewis could find an answer to this question Mrs. 
 Thorpe, who seemed to have Lady Helen and Lewis 
 terribly mixed up in her head, said: 
 
 "I'm thinking, Lucy, what a pretty picture Mr. Sey- 
 mour could paint of Lady Helen. You ought to ask her to 
 sit to him." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to do so, but I don't know that 
 
55 
 
 Lady Helen will have time to sit; she is leaving the 
 country very soon." " And I've no time to begin a por- 
 trait," Lewis interjected. " I'm too much occupied with 
 the decorations." 
 
 " Portraits and decorations don't mix, do they ? " Lucy 
 asked. " Has any great decorator been also a great 
 portrait painter? " 
 
 Lewis spoke of Tintoretto, but admitted that he did 
 not seem to have taken portrait painting very seriously. 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 A LITTLE after two o'clock, before Lucy or Mrs. Thorpe 
 had finished dressing to receive their visitors, Lord Sen- 
 ton and Mr. Day drove up in a dog-cart. 
 
 Lord Senton, a tall, languid young man, with weak 
 eyes, a fair moustache, and a rose Hush in his cheeks, 
 walked like a tall greyhound of distinctive breed, and 
 by his side his secretary, Mr. Day, trotted, a snappy 
 little mongrel who had little by little succeeded in gath- 
 ering up all Lord Senton's business, making of it a sort 
 of private possession. He ran his lordship's racing- 
 stables and he intrigued against his lordship's women, 
 advising him against this one and advocating the advan- 
 tages of another; doing all sorts of odd jobs with a 
 series of disagreeable little barks and yelps. Lord Sen- 
 ton's friends regarded him as an abomination, and he 
 chuckled as each friend dropped away, for to get Lord 
 Senton in his power completely it was necessary to isolate 
 him. 
 
 " I don't know what is happening," Senton said; " she 
 has put me off three times. I'm certain she'll never go 
 out to ride with me again, but will pull down stables and 
 build studios or something of that kind. What do you 
 
66 
 
 think of this young man who has come down here to 
 paint decorations for her? " 
 
 " Well, Lord Senton, I cannot tell you really what 
 I think of him until I see more of him. As soon as 
 a chance occurs I will try to get five minutes with him." 
 
 " And do you think you will be able to find out any- 
 thing about him ? " 
 
 "I think I shall," he answered; and he would have 
 said more, but at that moment a carriage passed round 
 the sweep containing an old lady in mauve and two girls 
 in pink dresses who shaded their faces with blue and 
 pink sunshades. 
 
 " Here are the Ormrod girls," said Mr. Day. 
 
 " How boring," Senton answered. " I wish we could 
 get away. Do you take them on, Day." 
 
 " Don't you think you'd like to talk to the girls for 
 a few minutes before Mrs. Bentham comes down," Day 
 asked, " while I take on the old lady ? " 
 
 Before this point could be decided, Mrs. Ormrod and 
 her daughters were announced. They were people of 
 some slight consideration in the county, having owned 
 property for some three or four generations, and being 
 related distantly to the Marquis of Hetherington, an 
 important nobleman, yielding but little in position and 
 influence to the Duke of Richmond, who spent three 
 months every year at Westland Manor, and invited bar- 
 onets, and the best county families to honour him with a 
 three days' visit; the small landowners, militia officers, 
 vicars and curates were invited to dinner, and their 
 position in the county was determined by the tone the 
 noble Marquis adopted in addressing them. 
 
 The Marquis's eldest sister, Lady Marion, had mar- 
 ried a Mr. Lindell, a county gentleman who had died 
 many years ago; Lady Alice, the second sister, had mar- 
 ried Sir Richard Sedgewick; he owned a large property 
 in Sussex, but lived principally in London. The third 
 
67 
 
 sister, Lady Henrietta, had married a diplomatist, Lord 
 Granderville, and her daughter, Lady Helen, was spoken 
 of as the belle of the season. Her photographs were 
 published in all the papers, and the gossips related that 
 her mother intended her for Lord Senton. She was only 
 back a few months from St. Petersburg and already it 
 was mooted that she was a great trouble to her mother, 
 and would probably marry according to her own inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 These were among the first to arrive, and very soon 
 afterwards carriages drove up in quick succession, and 
 emptied their cargoes of pink muslin and jerseys at the 
 hall door. The word tennis was heard all over the 
 drawing-room, and Mrs. Bentham, observing a great de- 
 sire on the part of the younger people for tennis, pro- 
 posed they should go out on the terrace. 
 
 The courts were in beautiful order — a turf of fine 
 grass like velvet, that the tennis players felt admiringly 
 with their feet. A fault must be found, and somebody 
 said, " A 'smash' will be impossible in these courts in 
 two hours' time." " Quite true," somebody replied : 
 " those at this end will not be able to lift their eyes." 
 There was plenty of shade, however, for the onlookers, 
 for at the far end three splendid cedars and some spread- 
 ing beeches formed a tent, in whose shade the white 
 cloth of the tea-table glittered like a bank of snow; and 
 it was there the company collected and talked as they 
 watched the game. The elders were more interested to 
 hear Lady Marion talk; and she had begun to express her 
 views regarding Russian intrigues in Persia to her sister, 
 Lady Granderville, whose thoughts were on her daughter, 
 rather than on politics. 
 
 " I'd rather that Granderville were sent to one of the 
 Colonies as Viceroy. I've been thinking out," she said, 
 " a project for trained nurses which, I believe, is needed 
 seriously; but I suppose we shall go to St. Petersburg. 
 
68 
 
 Helen likes Dutch society, but she is difficult to under- 
 stand. . . . By the way, have you heard about this young 
 man who is staying here decorating Lucy's ballroom? 
 One of the Ormrod girls, Ethel, caught sight of him, 
 and her description of him is that he would make a very 
 good-looking girl." 
 
 " Ethel Ormrod always puts a disagreeable colour on 
 everything she says. The young man is good-looking — 
 that she cannot deny; so she finds fault with him because 
 he looks as if he wasn't able to carry a very heavy trunk." 
 
 Lady Helen, who overheard her aunt's remark, said: 
 " I quite agree with Aunt Marion ; one doesn't want a 
 man to look like a stevedore." 
 
 " My dear Helen ! " Lady Granderville uttered ; and 
 then relapsed into a sort of plaintive silence. 
 
 " Now, what have I said wrong, mother? " Lady Helen 
 said. 
 
 " Nothing, dear," Lady Marion replied. " But I can't 
 help wondering where you got that lemon-coloured hair 
 from; no one else in the family has it." And the women 
 fell to talking about Lady Helen's hat, and it was agreed 
 that it matched the embroidery flowers on her dress. 
 
 She was among the whitest of women, with hardly a 
 trace of colour in her face, only a faint rose flush show- 
 ing; but round the eyes a darker tint announced a nature 
 that would probably cause Lady Granderville trouble 
 later on. The head, placed on a thin neck, fell into 
 varying attitudes, and the waist, which one could span 
 with one's hand, and the slight hips, recalled a Bacchus 
 rather than a Venus. 
 
 " Why do you stand, Helen ? Why don't you sit 
 down? " 
 
 " Whether I stand or sit, mother, I'm always doing 
 something wrong," Lady Helen answered, and she was 
 about to turn away and to leave the group, but was 
 stayed from doing so by the approach of Mrs. Bentham. 
 
59 
 
 " I hear, Henrietta, that you are going to Russia ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid we are, Lucy." 
 
 " Why afraid, Lady Granderville ? " Mr. Swannell 
 chimed in. 
 
 A political conversation with Mr. Swannell, who ac- 
 companied Mrs. Bentham, was a thing to be avoided, 
 and Lady Granderville answered abruptly; but unde- 
 terred by her remark, he turned to a group of young 
 men who crowded to listen, and addressed himself to 
 them, saying that Russia was the everlasting menace. 
 But in the midst of a fine period he noticed that every- 
 body was looking away from him, and at the same moment 
 he heard one of the girls say : " I'm sure it is he. Did 
 you ever see anybody so peculiar in your life? " 
 
 The peculiar person was Lewis, and as he walked 
 down the pathway the sun turned the brown hair that 
 fell on his neck to gold. 
 
 " He walks like a girl," said Ethel Ormrod. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Ethel," her sister re- 
 plied ; " most people would think that he walked very 
 gracefully." 
 
 There was a momentary lull in the tennis, as he joined 
 the groups assembled about the courts, and Mrs. Bentham 
 introduced him at once to Lady Marion, for she knew 
 that half the county took its opinion from that old 
 lady — and she did well, for what with her sister's whin- 
 ing stories and little worries, and Mr. Swannell's political 
 commonplaces, Lady Marion was in a humour that allowed 
 her to see little else but good in Lewis. 
 
 " I hear you are decorating Mrs. Bentham's ball- 
 room," she said. 
 
 " I have not yet finished my first panel, but all my 
 sketches are done," Lewis answered; and Lady Marion 
 asked him if his sketches were original. 
 
 " Inasmuch," he answered, " as I take Cupid from one 
 
60 
 
 engraving, and a nymph from another, and put them to- 
 gether." 
 
 The footmen were handing round ices, and Lewis 
 asked Lady Marion if she would come with him to the 
 tent and choose an ice for herself; or, if she would tell 
 him which ice she preferred, he would get it for her. 
 
 Lady Marion said that she would go and have a look 
 round. " And, perhaps, strawberries and cream might 
 tempt me, or some claret cup, or lemonade. I think I'll 
 go with you and have a look round,'' she said. 
 
 As she rose from her chair Lady Helen came forward 
 to speak to her aunt, and Lady Marion said: 
 
 " Mr. Seymour, let me introduce you to my niece, Lady 
 Helen Trevor.' - 
 
 " Dear me, what a fool Marion is," Lady Granderville 
 said to herself ; " she introduces that man to Helen simply 
 because he can gabble about pictures ; and now Helen's 
 chances of being agreeable to Lord Senton are done for — 
 that fellow won't leave her the whole afternoon. Really, 
 Marion is too thoughtless." 
 
 Her annoyance at her sister's thoughtlessness increased 
 when she saw that Lady Marion had asked Helen if she 
 would care to come with her to the tent ; and when Helen, 
 instead of walking by Lady Marion, walked on the other 
 side of Lewis, this attracted everybody's attention, includ- 
 ing Lucy's, who sat down by Lady Granderville and tried 
 to speak to her of indifferent things; speaking, however, 
 so disconnectedly that Lady Granderville guessed that 
 she was thinking of Mr. Seymour, and began to wonder 
 if it was possible that Lucy was in love with her painter. 
 
 " I hope she is," she continued in her thoughts, " for 
 she will keep him out of Helen's way." " A sort of 
 buffer-state," she said aloud. 
 
 " Like Belgium," Lucy answered. 
 
 "Belgium, did you say?" Lady Granderville inter- 
 jected. " I hope we shan't be sent there. But I hear 
 
61 
 
 Mr. Seymour is decorating your ballroom, and is doing 
 it beautifully." 
 
 At once Lucy began to speak of Lewis's gift for 
 decoration, " in other words," she said, " for filling a 
 space." The words " filling a space " were not lost upon 
 Lady Granderville. 
 
 " She is picking up his j argon," she said ; and both 
 women waited for Lewis to reappear. 
 
 He came forward a few minutes afterwards with Lady 
 Marion and Lady Helen on either side of him, and the 
 three walked towards Lady Granderville, as if with the 
 intention of rejoining her. But on their way thither, to 
 Lady Granderville's annoyance, Helen led Lewis towards 
 a seat under the cedars. 
 
 "How determined she is," Lucy said to herself; and 
 she would have gone forward to carry Lewis off, if she 
 could have escaped from her guests. 
 
 A match between Miss Ormrod and Miss Fanshaw 
 was just going to begin ; and to avoid the friends in whom 
 she had no interest, and the rays of the sun which 
 were stealing under her long-fringed parasol, Lady 
 Helen rose and walked through the pleasure grounds 
 with Lewis. 
 
 ... A mother watched her daughter, a mistress her 
 lover, and the two women's faces told with what uneasi- 
 ness they saw what was happening. Even the tennis 
 players forgot their games and looked after the great 
 beauty that the young painter was now leading away to 
 some secluded corner of the park. The girls, less discreet 
 than the young men, exchanged glances and whispered 
 among themselves; and Lord Senton, annoyed, foolishly 
 asked Mrs. Bentham when she was going out riding with 
 him again. 
 
 Lucy gave an abrupt answer, and moved away from 
 him as if it had become her duty to speak to some other 
 guests. 
 
62 
 
 " I wonder what she can see in that painter, to go off 
 with him like that? " Lord Senton said to Day, and 
 both sat watching the retreating figures, neither of which 
 had any suspicion of the attention which both were at- 
 tracting. 
 
 A turn brought them to the river. " Always flowing," 
 Lady Helen said. " Let us sit here, and tell me about 
 your painting. When shall I see your pictures ? " 
 
 " As soon as I have anything to show I shall be de- 
 lighted. I have only just started a panel," he answered. 
 
 Lady Helen did not reply, but sat listlessly drawing 
 on the ground with her parasol. At last she said: " I 
 suppose that if a man has an art to which he is devoted, 
 he can dispense with all other interests. In books lovers 
 are all painters and poets, but I don't think artists care 
 much about women." 
 
 " But you are a poetess, Lady Helen. Does that mean, 
 therefore, that you have no interest in the men you 
 meet? " 
 
 " Very little in the men I meet," she answered. 
 
 " But you dream ? " he said. 
 
 " We must all dream," she answered ; and her voice 
 had in it that accent of regret so dear to youthful hearts. 
 
 Neither spoke; each struggled with an emotion that 
 was almost pain. 
 
 " You are going to Russia, Lady Helen ? " 
 
 " Perhaps ; but one returns from Russia," she replied. 
 " Let us hope so," she added, lifting her eyes. 
 
 And then the conversation fell into commonplace, and 
 they talked of things that did not interest them, listening 
 all the while to the river bubbling past them. At the 
 end of a long silence Lady Helen said, " My mother will 
 begin to wonder what has become of me." 
 
 Lewis's lack of knowledge of social conventions and 
 customs prevented him from answering her, and they 
 turned back meeting Mrs. Bentham and Mrs. Thorpe 
 
68 
 
 in the path coming towards them, and they returned up 
 the pathway. 
 
 " Lady Granderville sent me," Mrs. Thorpe said, " in 
 search of you. She says she is thinking of leaving." 
 
 " Mother no sooner arrives than she begins thinking 
 of leaving," Lewis heard Lady Helen say ; " particularly 
 when anybody else is being amused." 
 
 Lewis would have wished Lady Helen to have spoken 
 any other words but these, for already he had begun to 
 fear he had been guilty of an indiscretion, of an impru- 
 dence that might result in his dismissal, and, foreseeing 
 his departure next morning, in the luggage cart, perhaps, 
 he tried to defend himself, telling his patroness that 
 Lady Helen had proposed they should walk to the river. 
 " I couldn't tell her that I could not accompany her, 
 could I? Be just." 
 
 " I suppose," she said, " that you admire her very 
 much. Have you been making love to her? " 
 
 " We were only talking about painting and poetry ; 
 she writes poetry, and wanted to know my opinion," he 
 answered. " She asked me if I would give her some les- 
 sons in painting," his vanity prompted him to add, but 
 no sooner were the words spoken than he regretted them. 
 
 " Give her lessons ? " she repeated ; " very well, you 
 will have plenty of time, for I don't think I will take any 
 more off you." 
 
 These words made it plain to Lewis that if he could 
 persuade Lucy to condone his conduct and forget it, he 
 would one day be admitted to her bedroom. 
 
 " I could not do else than follow her," he said, " with- 
 out seeming rude." 
 
 " Are you sure you don't love her, Lewis ? " 
 
 " Sure I do not love her, Lucy ! A quarter of an hour 
 ago I saw her for the first time, and in a few days she'll 
 be going to St. Petersburg." 
 
64 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 LUCY did not answer him, and he began to ask himself 
 if he should have refrained from using her Christian 
 name, and vowed he would attribute the indiscretion, if 
 she considered it one, to the emotion of the moment. 
 
 An hour later, as he stood on the steps watching the 
 visitors drive away, he said to himself : " As soon as the 
 last has departed I will ask her if she is angry with me, 
 and beg of her to forgive me." But among the last guests 
 to depart were some friends whom Lucy succeeded in 
 persuading to stay to dinner, and these stayed on anon; 
 it was nearly eleven o'clock before their carriage drove 
 away, and then Lucy bade Lewis a formal good-night 
 and he went up to his room, asking himself if a walk 
 in a wood and ten minutes spent by a river's brink with 
 a young girl would cause him to be thrown out of Clare- 
 mont House. " Our lives do not depend upon such trifling 
 circumstances as these," he said, and began to think the 
 matter out, discovering new arguments which he would 
 advance when Lucy spoke to him again on the subject. 
 He would tell her that Lady Helen had asked him to 
 walk in the wood with her — which was true. " How 
 could I refuse ? " he would say. " You wouldn't have 
 me rude to one of your guests ? " An admirable argu- 
 ment, this seemed to him to be, and he hoped she would 
 come down to breakfast next morning: she sometimes 
 appeared at breakfast and sometimes she didn't. Alas! 
 the first thing the butler told him next morning was that 
 Mrs. Bentham would not appear before luncheon — a piece 
 of news that set him conjecturing, asking himself if she 
 wished to avoid him; and all the morning he expected 
 a note from her telling him what the trains to Lon- 
 don were. He knew she would not write such a letter, 
 but he could not stay the thoughts that floated through 
 
65 
 
 his mind and prevented him from applying himself 
 to a Cupid's head. He stopped to listen, his face 
 brightening at the sound of footsteps and darkening 
 when they died away. He lit a cigarette and put his 
 palette aside, saying: " I can do nothing till I have 
 spoken with her." At last the door opened — it was she. 
 " I have been waiting for you," he said. 
 
 " But I thought," she answered, " we were agreed as 
 to the composition ? " 
 
 It was a great relief to Lewis to hear Lucy say these 
 words, for he knew now that he was not going to be 
 turned out of Claremont House, and sent back to the 
 garret that would seem ten times more like a garret 
 now than it had ever done. Having tasted the flesh- 
 pots of Claremont House, he felt he must go on tasting. 
 Another thing, if he were sent back to his garret there 
 would be no Gwynnie Lloyd to relieve his solitude — 
 he would have to endure it alone. 
 
 " But I thought we were agreed as to the composi- 
 tion?" 
 
 " Yes ; you agreed with me," he answered, " that a 
 nymph in the panel over the fireplace should press a 
 dove to her bosom, and that a Cupid should stretch forth 
 his hand with an insistent gesture that the nymph must 
 give the bird to him. That was the motive," he said. 
 
 " Yes, and a very pretty motive, too," she said. " I 
 am looking forward to seeing it. You have a movement 
 for the nymph, I suppose? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I found a drawing that gives me 
 very nearly the movement I want." 
 
 " Let me see it " ; and when Lewis found the drawing 
 Lucy said: "Yes, you have got your nymph." 
 
 " I'm glad you think so," he answered. 
 
 "And a Cupid will be easily found." 
 
 " Why do you say that? " he asked. " You are laugh- 
 ing at me. Why are you laughing at me? " 
 
66 
 
 " But I'm not laughing "; and they walked over to the 
 window and stood watching a flock of sheep that had 
 collected in the shade of a great elm. 
 
 " If you are not laughing at me, you are angry with 
 me." 
 
 "Angry with you? Why should I be angry? Be- 
 cause you have not been working very hard this morn- 
 ing? " she asked. 
 
 " If I haven't been working it is because — I told you 
 yesterday that I did not love Lady Helen." 
 
 " But why should that make me angry? " 
 
 " I said that I only loved you." 
 
 " And you've found out since then that you told me 
 an untruth ? " 
 
 " You aren't angry with me because I said I loved 
 you?" 
 
 As Lucy was about to answer him, a step was heard, 
 and Lewis handed Lucy an engraving and asked her if 
 she thought well of it. 
 
 A moment after the butler entered; he handed Mrs. 
 Bentham a telegram, and said that Lord Senton was in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 " His lordship is going to London by the two o'clock 
 train and would like to know if he can do anything 
 for you in London." 
 
 Before answering, Mrs. Bentham opened the telegram. 
 " My father is very ill, Mr. Seymour ; I shall have to go 
 to London." 
 
 " What shall I tell Lord Senton ? " the butler asked. 
 
 " Tell his lordship that I will be with him in a minute." 
 
 " So you're going up to London with Lord Senton," 
 Lewis said, and there was a little agony in his voice 
 that made Lucy forget her father for a moment. 
 
 " My dear Lewis, Lord Senton is nothing to me and 
 never will be, except a neighbour. But a neighbour he 
 is, and as we are going up to London the same day there 
 
67 
 
 is no reason why we should not travel together. It 
 would look rather marked if we didn't." 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 HE could see Lord Senton from one of the windows of 
 the ballroom following Lucy into the brougham; and, his 
 heart misgiving him, he sat like one overcome, till a 
 knock at the door awoke him from his sad reverie. " Come 
 in," he cried, and was surprised to see Day. 
 
 "Are you sure I may come in?" he asked. "Artists, 
 I know, don't like to show unfinished pictures; but I 
 won't look at them. I just called to ask you if you would 
 care to come for a drive." 
 
 Lewis did not answer, and Day, interpreting his silence, 
 said: "Ah, I see you are too busy. May I look? A 
 very nice young woman you are sketching up there. She'd 
 do : oh, yes, she'd do very nicely " ; and Lewis looked 
 down upon the small, spare, vulgar little man, who stood 
 in the middle of the floor, his legs wide apart, his hands 
 thrust in his pockets. 
 
 " Have you got any cigarettes ? " he asked. 
 
 Lewis had to find cigarettes for him, and when these 
 were given to him he sought a seat on the couch, removing 
 the engravings, Lewis thought, somewhat unceremoni- 
 ously. 
 
 " It will be some months before you have finished this 
 job," he said. 
 
 Lewis answered that he could not say when he would 
 be finished. " Painting sometimes seems to go very 
 quickly, and sometimes it seems as if one could not make 
 any progress at all," he answered boldly. 
 
 Day sat staring round the walls. " I suppose you 
 will have a nymph here and a Cupid there; and what 
 will you put over yonder? " 
 
68 
 
 " Probably a garland of flowers," Lewis answered. 
 
 " I wonder how you can think of all these things. 
 And Mrs. Bentham — does she help you with your paint- 
 ing? I've heard she is pretty handy with her box of 
 water-colours." 
 
 " Mrs. Bentham comes into the ballroom in the morn- 
 ing, and we talk the decorations over together; but she 
 doesn't do any of the painting." 
 
 " No ; I don't mean that," Day replied carelessly. " I 
 suppose she saw one of your pictures on exhibition, and 
 that is how you made her acquaintance ? " 
 
 " Well, no," Lewis answered quite simply. " She saw 
 some of my work in a picture dealer's shop, and the 
 picture dealer recommended me. It was Mr. Vicome who 
 wished to have this ballroom done; but he seems to have 
 fallen seriously ill, and he may not live to see it finished." 
 
 " If he dies," Day said, " Mrs. Bentham will inherit 
 another five thousand a year. She will be the richest 
 woman in Sussex. I wonder if she will marry again? 
 Her property and Lord Senton's overlap; if they were 
 to make a match of it, their land would stretch as far as 
 the eye could see." 
 
 " Do you think she will marry Lord Senton? " Lewis 
 asked. 
 
 " I wouldn't be surprised; they have gone up to Lon- 
 don together " ; and the mongrel watched Lewis, reading 
 his face like a book. " Ah, now I've got what I wanted," 
 he said to himself. " You, too, are an aspirant ; and it 
 wouldn't surprise me if you succeeded in cutting out 
 Senton. I'd like to get one of her farms, and may be able 
 to get it through you " ; and on this thought Day's man- 
 ner changed, and though he did not become less vulgar, 
 he became more kindly, and his admiration of Lewis's 
 designs deceived the painter, and the two men parted on 
 friendly terms, Lewis regretting that he hadn't the time 
 to go for a drive that afternoon: he must go back to his 
 
69 
 
 painting. "We are dependent upon the light," he said; 
 and Day waved his hand, and Lewis was soon upon the 
 scaffolding again, regretting the interruption that had 
 prevented him from finishing a piece of drapery. " It's 
 a long job," he said, " six large panels, twelve feet by 
 six, and a number of smaller ones ; and although the deco- 
 rations are slight, they take time " ; and he rang the bell 
 for the carpenter and the page-boy, for having made his 
 compositions according to scale, he could enlarge them 
 by means of a square; the carpenter applied the rule 
 and the page-boy held the strings. " That'll do," he 
 said ; " thank you. I'll ring when I want you again." 
 
 He worked all day, going to his work immediately after 
 breakfast and returning to it after luncheon, leaving the 
 house very seldom — never, unless sent out by Mrs. 
 Thorpe, who feared he was undermining his constitution. 
 At five o'clock he rang for a cup of tea, but ten minutes' 
 rest was the most he allowed for tea; and laying aside 
 his cup, he picked up his palette and continued to cover 
 large surfaces with paint till the butler came to tell him 
 that it had struck half-past seven, and that dinner was 
 at eight. 
 
 He and Mrs. Thorpe dined together, and after dinner 
 he played backgammon with her, and when she was tired 
 of the game, he told her anecdotes about his father's 
 chemical experiments, and how all their fortune vanished 
 up the chimney of his laboratory, and how he, Lewis, had 
 lived with his mother for many years till she died. 
 
 " After her death I went to London to seek my for- 
 tune; and for a long time my fortune consisted of doing 
 little water-colour paintings and carrying them about 
 from dealer to dealer, trying to find one who would give 
 me a few shillings for them. Very often I sold my 
 sketches for five shillings, and very often had no stock- 
 ings on my feet, and had to ink them to disguise the 
 truth from the dealer." 
 
70 
 
 His gentle manner and sincerity won the old lady's 
 heart, and long before Mrs. Bentham returned she had 
 begun to look upon him as one of the family, and was 
 quite surprised and pained when he spoke of leaving for 
 Paris as soon as the decorations were finished. 
 
 " But, my dear Mrs. Thorpe, I have much to learn. 
 As soon as I know my craft we'll be able to judge if 
 I have anything new to say." 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe, who had already passed on to the con- 
 clusion that the decorations would be finished by the end 
 of the week, reminded him that Mrs. Bentham would be 
 very disappointed if she returned to Claremont House 
 and found him gone; at which he laughed, saying that 
 the decorations would not be finished for another three 
 months; moreover, he had never contemplated running 
 away to Paris without seeing her. " It is her money that 
 will take me there," he said ; and she replied that she was 
 sure that Lucy would be very sorry. 
 
 On words very like these they often bade each other 
 good-night, and it seemed to Lewis, as he went up the 
 staircase to his room, that life was coming to him in a 
 very pleasant fashion. " Yes," he said to himself, " it 
 is pleasant enough now, but as soon as the decorations 
 are finished and Mrs. Bentham returns, I shall go to 
 Paris and invest my money in education. I can't paint, 
 but I can learn to paint. We shall always be friends, 
 Lucy and I. Perhaps more than friends; of course, if 
 that should happen, it will not be necessary for me to 
 go to Paris." On this he fell to thinking of the last 
 words she had spoken to him, and wondered if he should 
 write to her " My dear Lucy," or if on paper he should 
 still keep to the formality of " Mrs. Bentham." " She 
 might like to hear me call her Lucy, but might not like 
 to see it in black and white." He was handed a letter 
 next morning, and the news that Lucy's father was much 
 better, and that she was returning to Claremont House 
 
71 
 
 at once, was very welcome news, and, having expressed 
 some satisfaction at Mr. Vicome's recovery, he retired 
 to the ballroom. 
 
 She would have many things to tell him, and he would 
 have the decorations to show her. On the whole he had 
 a good deal to show, for he had worked hard; and if he 
 were to start working at once he might get in some more 
 Cupids, if not in paint, in charcoal, some garlands and 
 some leaves, before she arrived. But his thoughts were 
 too much absorbed in the pleasure of meeting Lucy for 
 him to make much progress in his work that day; and 
 after luncheon he was walking about the drive, wondering 
 if he should set off on foot and meet her at the station. 
 It occurred to him to take a slow train up and wait for 
 her at the junction. The thought of returning in the 
 train with her enchanted him, but the enchantment quickly 
 wore off. She might look upon it as a liberty, and, 
 perhaps, it would not be well for him even to go to the 
 station to meet her or even to be found walking in the 
 drive. It would, perhaps, be better for him to await her 
 pleasure in the ballroom. The time would pass quickly 
 if he were to apply himself to his work; but he couldn't 
 bring himself to take up his palette, and the hours wore 
 away tediously ; but they wore away, and about five o'clock 
 the wheels of the brougham were heard on the gravel 
 sweep. " Now, will she come into the studio or sit talk- 
 ing to Mrs. Thorpe ? " he said to himself. " If she goes 
 to Mrs. Thorpe, I shall not be able to resist the tempta- 
 tion, and shall go to her." 
 
 She came into the ballroom in great eagerness to see 
 him and the decorations, and it did not seem to him 
 certain which she most admired — him or his work. 
 
 " How you have been working ! Is it possible that you 
 have done all this by yourself? You must have worked 
 all alone on that scaffolding, hour after hour. Did you 
 miss me? " But, as if the words seemed to her too 
 
72 
 
 intimate, she added : " Did you miss my visits in the 
 morning? " 
 
 " I missed our talk very much ; it is so much pleasanter 
 to work with somebody standing by that one can turn 
 to for advice and encouragement." 
 
 " How prettily you say things, Lewis ! " 
 
 " But talk to me about yourself," he interjected sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " After tea we will talk. I must get my things off 
 now, and there are several things I have to see to; so 
 good-bye for the time being." 
 
 She left him, his thoughts dancing and all his blood 
 tingling in his veins, certain at last that if he were to 
 lay his arm about her she would not shield her lips with 
 her hand, and the final intimacy could not be delayed much 
 longer. He expected that she would make it plain to him 
 that she wished him to kiss when she returned. But noth- 
 ing happened. She seemed to have drifted a little away 
 from him ; and during the night he experienced many mis- 
 givings. Next day her manner was not reassuring, and 
 he asked himself if it were possible that she only thought 
 of him as a young man of talent whom she would like to 
 encourage and help for her own pleasure or vanity. He 
 thought of her age; perhaps she had thought of that, 
 too, and had come to think of an older man. 
 
 One day they were standing by the window, and for 
 his desire of her lips he could not talk of the decorations 
 any longer, and began to tell her suddenly that he loved 
 her; and she, fearing that his words would precipitate 
 an act on his part that would oblige her to send him 
 away, so she thought, began to prepare a little sermon; 
 but at the moment of speaking her voice died off her 
 tongue, she swayed a little, and a moment after was in 
 his arms. Her leaned-back head lay upon his shoulder — 
 his lips were upon her lips, and her lips were upon his, 
 and, worst of all, she had no power to close them. He 
 
73 
 
 drew her towards him, and she forgot to disengage herself 
 from his arms — forgot to tell him that he must not speak 
 to her of love, and they sat on the sofa side by side. 
 
 " I cannot help myself," she murmured, and drawing 
 him towards her, she kissed him. 
 
 " We must go away together," he said. 
 
 " Go away together? What do you mean? " 
 
 " If you kiss me you love me," he answered; " and if 
 you love me you will marry me." 
 
 " But I am married ; what you ask is impossible. You 
 don't know my husband. To punish me he would not ask 
 for a divorce. Don't let us speak on this subject again; 
 otherwise we cannot remain friends." 
 
 " Friends ! " he exclaimed ; " there can be no friendship 
 between us. You have made me love you, and if you 
 can give me nothing else but friendship I will leave you 
 and your decorations to-night." 
 
 His words bewildered her. " Leave here to-night ; 
 leave this house and the decorations ! " And before she 
 could find other words to answer him he rushed out of 
 the room. 
 
 " Going upstairs," she said to herself, " to pack his 
 portmanteau. But he cannot go to-night; there is no 
 train. To-morrow he may think differently, so there is 
 hope." 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 THE room in which she had spent so many charming 
 hours stared at her: nymphs, Cupids, flowers, and ten- 
 drils, some completed, some barely indicated with a few 
 black lines. A group of Cupids quarrelled over some 
 masks and arrows. Each panel contained an episode 
 in the comedy of love, a blurred incomplete dream, and 
 she tried to comprehend it all as an allegory of her own 
 
74 
 
 life, attaching special significance to the nymph gathering 
 a wounded bird to her bosom. But all that was over and 
 done with now. Lewis would leave her to-morrow, and 
 her life would sink back into arid circumstance. It did 
 not seem to her that she had ever been alive till she had 
 met him, and now that she had given him up life seemed 
 to her more like a desert than ever and the people in it 
 extraordinarily insignificant. How different to-day from 
 yesterday ! By her father's bedside she had been thinking 
 of Lewis, and of the day when she would be free to 
 return to Claremont House to consult with him how a 
 Cupid, a basket of flowers, a mask, a wreath, would light 
 up a composition. She remembered lying awake at night 
 thinking that perhaps she had made a mistake when she 
 had said that the basket of flowers should be on the right 
 side of the nymph instead of the left. Of course Lewis 
 knew better than she, and her hope had been for many 
 an hour that her mistake had not annoyed him and caused 
 him to think less well of her judgment in matters of art. 
 She remembered, too, how she had, while out driving, 
 thought the drive too long, and looked forward to seeing 
 the progress he had made during the afternoon, asking 
 herself all the while if he had succeeded in painting the 
 satyr — the one blowing the reed-pipe. And how pleasant 
 it was to have him at dinner, to hear him talking across 
 the dinner-table, to know that he was in the house, to 
 hear his step, the sadness of the footfall as he left the 
 house, the joy he brought back when she heard it return- 
 ing, the hope that awakened as he came into the drawing- 
 room, and the hope that died when she heard him going 
 towards the ballroom! All this life that had once been 
 so real was now about to disappear. But to keep it, 
 and how? Was it a reality outside of her, or was it 
 something within herself? " I suppose I'm in love with 
 him," she said suddenly and aloud. " This fever which 
 possesses me, which I would maintain at any cost, is love. 
 
75 
 
 Strange, is it not? But strange or simple, there it is, 
 and he must not leave the house," she said, and thanked 
 God there was no train that night. One more night at 
 least he would have to spend under her roof; of that she 
 was sure. He must stay on — for how long she did not 
 know — even if she had to beg him to stay. 
 
 Could it be that he was packing his portmanteau? 
 And unable to restrain her curiosity she lingered on the 
 staircase. If he was packing his portmanteau she would 
 hear him moving to and fro, but she heard nothing, which 
 was not astonishing, for Lewis had hardly ascended the 
 stairs before his heart began to fail him. If he were to 
 leave Claremont House without finishing the decorations, 
 he would be in the same plight as he was when he came 
 to Claremont House. She would not be obliged to pay 
 him for unfinished work, for work which he had declined 
 to finish; and he sat wondering, asking himself how he 
 could retrieve his mistake. If he might retrieve it by 
 going to Mrs. Thorpe and telling her everything that had 
 happened? For a moment this seemed to him to be a 
 way out of the difficulty, but on thinking it over he remem- 
 bered that, if he were to take Mrs. Thorpe into his confi- 
 dence, he would have to tell her that he had kissed Lucy. 
 It would be better to go direct to Lucy and tell her he was 
 sorry. 
 
 It was an agony to wait thinking that every moment 
 the butler might come upstairs to tell him that the 
 brougham was at the door to take him to the station. The 
 footsteps in the passage were the butler's, but he had 
 come to tell him that dinner would be ready in about 
 twenty minutes. So perhaps after all he was not going 
 to be sent away. Nothing was certain, but — As he left 
 his room he met Lucy coming from her room, and he 
 began the conversation with : " Dinner is a little early 
 to-night, Mrs. Bentham." 
 
 " Only a few minutes, Lewis." 
 
76 
 
 His name on her lips put courage in his heart. And 
 during dinner he remembered having mentioned three 
 months as the probable period it would take to finish 
 the decorations, but he thought he could finish them in 
 two. There was a good two months' work on the walls 
 still; in two months he would broach his project to Lucy, 
 and during these two months he hoped to persuade her 
 out of her scruples, which amounted to no more than 
 fear of discovery and subsequent divorce. 
 
 And, biding his time, choosing one evening as they 
 were sitting, all three together, by the fireside, he began 
 to speak of Pari3 and its schools of art, and how neces- 
 sary it was for him to go there. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe dropped her knitting. " Going to France 
 when you leave here, Lewis? But I thought you had 
 given up that idea? " 
 
 "But why should I have given up the idea? I have 
 a great deal to learn ; I know that. I don't know how to 
 paint, but I can learn to paint. Could I find a better 
 investment for the money you are kind enough to pay me 
 for the decorations ? " he said, turning to Lucy. He 
 watched her face, and his reading of it was that she was 
 thinking of the many temptations Paris presents to a 
 young man, and how easily a young man's character might 
 be undermined by the Parisian sirens. 
 
 " She doesn't like the idea that another woman should 
 get me, yet she hangs back," he said to himself; and then 
 aloud : " But, my dear Mrs. Bentham " — -he never used 
 her Christian name before Mrs. Thorpe — " I have to paint 
 pictures." 
 
 " But you are painting pictures here on the walls." 
 
 " And beautiful pictures," Mrs. Thorpe interposed. 
 
 " Decorations, mere decorations," Lewis answered. " I 
 must learn to paint portraits." 
 
 " And cannot you do that," Mrs. Thorpe asked, " with- 
 out going to Paris? " 
 
77 
 
 " But, Mrs. Thorpe, there is no reason why you 
 shouldn't come to Paris, you and Mrs. Bentham, is 
 there ? " And he turned to Mrs. Bentham, and she an- 
 swered : 
 
 " No, there is no reason. If we go to Paris we shall 
 certainly look forward to the pleasure of seeing you." 
 
 The bodily possession that he desired so ardently still 
 seemed a long way off, but it seemed certain to him 
 now, " for people do things in Paris that they would 
 not do in London," he said to himself, and asked Mrs. 
 Thorpe if she would like to play a game of backgammon. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 SOON Lucy began to think how her ballroom might be 
 used as an advertisement of Lewis's talent, and it oc- 
 curred to her that a ball would introduce him to a great 
 number of people, some of whom might give him com- 
 missions to paint their portraits or to decorate their 
 rooms, and if this happened the Parisian adventure might 
 be indefinitely postponed. 
 
 She mentioned the ball one evening after dinner. Mrs. 
 Thorpe did not remonstrate, and Lewis was delighted at 
 the prospect of making known his decorations to Sussex. 
 
 " But if my decorations are to be seen," he said, " the 
 room must be properly lighted." 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe answered that they had many lamps. 
 
 " A lustre will be necessary." 
 
 And next day he and Lucy went to London to seek 
 for lustres, bringing back two with them, each holding 
 twenty-five candles. 
 
 " With these," he said, " the room will be lighted from 
 end to end." 
 
 Lucy was not so sure as Lewis that fifty wax candles 
 would be sufficient lighting for so large a room, and when 
 
78 
 
 trial was made her judgment proved to be right; and for 
 the sake of certain wreaths and Cupids, which to lose 
 would be to impinge on the general effect, Lewis hung 
 sconces here and there, and lamps were placed at his 
 direction on the mantelpieces and on pedestals in the 
 corners. 
 
 This was his first exhibition, and the voices of the 
 guests crying, "How charming!" "How beautiful!" 
 " What a lovely room ! " filled his soul with an exquisite 
 music only heard by him — an enchanting music whose 
 spell was now and then harshly broken when a couple 
 advanced straight to Mrs. Bentham, showing no sign 
 that they were in a room they had never been in before. 
 " One would think," Lewis muttered, " that they were 
 in a billiard-room with a hard green paper with a wriggly 
 pattern on the walls." 
 
 The sense of enchantment, however, began again when 
 Lucy called the attention of her guests to the decorations. 
 He knew they could not appreciate, for they did not 
 understand; but all he desired was praise, and when a 
 couple, after shaking hands with Lucy, began to question 
 her, looking round the room at the pictures, not at the 
 people, his face and hers too lighted up, and she became 
 again a gracious and animated hostess. 
 
 As long as they were looking at his pictures Lewis 
 was delighted, but his delight increased when they asked 
 to be introduced to him, and Mrs. Bentham brought them 
 over or called him to come to her; and her pleasure was 
 plain at his success. 
 
 "It is quite true," he said, "I'm successful! There 
 can be no doubt about it," he added, for he caught sight 
 of a group of people who were certainly talking about 
 him, " saying," he said to himself, " ' He is the painter ' "; 
 and when Mr. Ripple, a young man who wrote for the 
 papers, approached him, saying, " I want to introduce 
 you to " — mentioning several people of title — Lewis heard 
 
79 
 
 a voice saying again within him : " You're successful, 
 you're successful." He received the compliments paid 
 him with tact, saying that he was pleased they liked his 
 pictures, and this mixture of modesty and pleasure in 
 their judgments was of advantage to him. He made 
 many conquests that evening, and the most useful of these 
 was Mr. Ripple, who he could see accepted him as a 
 man of genius. 
 
 " Mr. Seymour," he said, " will you come with me where 
 I can listen to your views on modern painting? " And 
 Lewis answered: " I shall be delighted if I can tell you 
 anything that will be of use to you in your articles. I 
 believe you write for the newspapers. Come into the 
 study." 
 
 " At the end of the library there is a room free from 
 hats and cloaks where we can sit for a few minutes," 
 Mr. Ripple said. ..." I'm engaged for a waltz not very 
 far ahead. But just tell me your views on mural paint- 
 tog." 
 
 Lewis tried to gather up his ideas and Ripple tried 
 to understand, and after a few minutes he said : " I think 
 I must return to the ballroom now, but I hope we shall 
 meet again and have an opportunity of discussing this 
 matter more thoroughly. I think I understand, and you 
 may depend on me to give an artistic expression to your 
 views. I believe you are going to Paris very soon," he 
 added; and Lewis, seeing an opportunity for advertise- 
 ment, replied : 
 
 " Not to study decoration specially — I have my own 
 ideas about that — but portrait-painting, which must not 
 be ignored by an artist. If you should ever come to 
 Paris you will not fail to call on me at my hotel, which 
 hotel Mrs. Bentham will give you the name of." 
 
 A few minutes afterwards Lewis saw Ripple gliding 
 and whirling about the ballroom with a young lady in 
 white muslin in his arms, exhibiting, Lewis was fain to 
 
80 
 
 admit, great skill in avoiding collisions, stopping at judi- 
 cious moments, and taking advantage of every opening, 
 pushing his partner backwards or bringing her forwards 
 to her great delight and to his own ; Ripple looking upon 
 himself as pastmaster of the art of Terpsichore. 
 
 "Why are you not dancing?" Ripple said, stopping 
 in front of Lewis. 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm not an expert in dancing," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 The young girl whispered to Ripple: "Let us away; 
 we mustn't miss any of this dance " ; and they went off 
 together, leaving an envious painter behind, one sorely 
 tempted to ask some girl to dance with him, but not 
 daring. He saw a girl steal a gardenia from a young 
 man's coat; the odour overpowered her, and wondered 
 what they said to each other and did in the secluded 
 corner in which they took refuge after the dance. The 
 band began to play another waltz; couples rose out of 
 the dark corners in which they had been hiding, and 
 Lewis saw a tall girl with fair hair and a sheeplike face, 
 who when she looked over her partner's shoulder to 
 admire herself in the mirror, opened her eyes very wide: 
 and the whirling of silk ankles and the gliding of glazed 
 shoes continued hour after hour till the guests went 
 away looking very tired and pale. 
 
 Some had ten and twelve miles to go, and these would 
 not arrive home before four or five in the morning, so 
 they said; and when the last batch crushed itself into 
 the brougham, and the last carriage rolled away, Lucy 
 and Lewis were left in the empty ballroom looking at 
 the pictures. " The candles are burning very low in 
 the chandelier," Lewis said, and Mrs. Bentham rang for 
 the footmen, but before they arrived Lewis had secured 
 a step-ladder and he blew out what remained of the 
 candles. The footmen blew out the candles in the sconces, 
 
81 
 
 and Mrs. Bentham told them to turn out the lamps and 
 to draw the curtains, for it was now daylight. 
 
 " How strange the dawn is ! " Lewis said. " There is 
 always something menacing in the return of the light, 
 whereas there is a sort of consolation in the departing 
 light in the evening." He was surprised at his remark, 
 it seeming to him full of significance and poetry, and he 
 turned his weary eyes once more to his decorations and 
 began to speak of them. Lucy was too tired to think 
 of painting, but not too tired to think of Lewis, and 
 she said: 
 
 " You're going to Paris at the end of the week? " 
 " We shall not be separated long," Lewis answered. 
 " You will come to Paris to see me, and I shall finish 
 the portrait that I began." And his talk was of his por- 
 trait as they mounted the first flight of stairs, whereas 
 she expected him to take her in his arms. The moment 
 was a propitious one, and he stopped in the middle of 
 his room to ask himself why he had not done so. Why 
 had he continued to speak about that portrait instead? 
 Damn that portrait ! It would have been better if he had 
 taken her in his arms. " She would have let me kiss her ; 
 there was nobody on the stairs." He began to untie 
 his necktie, and stopped untying it to curse his folly 
 again and to ask himself why he had missed his oppor- 
 tunity — deliberately missed it. " Because I was too 
 tired," he murmured to himself ; " as likely as not that 
 was the reason." He wished his nuptials to be trium- 
 phant. " Another opportunity will occur to-morrow," he 
 murmured before he fell asleep. Another opportunity, 
 however, did not occur on the morrow nor on the day 
 after; but he went away to Paris with four hundred 
 pounds, Lucy having insisted on paying more than was 
 agreed on for the decorations: and three hundred and 
 seventy-five pounds to his credit at the bank, five and 
 twenty in his note case, some loose change in his pocket, 
 
82 
 
 and a stiff determination in his heart to be a great success. 
 
 But to paint Greeks and Romans (he deemed these 
 alone to be worthy of paint), it was necessary to learn 
 to draw, and as soon as he arrived in Paris he went out 
 in search of a studio, and as soon as he found one, he 
 threw himself into the work that began at eight o'clock 
 every morning, with an hour for luncheon at twelve. 
 Work began again at one, and continued till five. Nor 
 was he content even with eight hours' work a day; he 
 must, for the sake of his visionary Greeks and Romans, 
 attend a night-class of the Beaux-Arts. But to get into 
 this class it was necessary to pass an examination, to 
 draw and model a full-length figure in eight hours, to 
 defeat a hundred candidates — perhaps more. And only 
 a certain number of places were available — twenty-five, 
 thirty, forty, fifty. For these there were many candi- 
 dates. Lewis's drawing was twenty-fifth on the list — 
 an excellent place among the forty drawings that gained 
 admission to the class. He could hardly hope for a 
 greater success, and he wrote an enthusiastic account of 
 his reception at the Beaux- Arts to Lucy; a couple of 
 months later he wrote an enthusiastic account of the 
 prizes he had won in Julien's studio. A hundred francs 
 and a bronze medal for the drawing he had done in the 
 day-class. 
 
 " But is he not working very hard ? " Mrs. Thorpe 
 said. " If you look into his letters, Lucy, you will find 
 that he works eight hours a day; his brain may give 
 way. What do you think? " 
 
 Lucy did not answer, but soon after these remarks she 
 said she would like to see Paris again. 
 
 " It would be well to look after him a little," Mrs. 
 Thorpe replied. " It seems to me he is working much 
 too hard." 
 
 " But if we should interrupt him in his studies? " Lucy 
 answered. 
 
83 
 
 " We needn't stay in Paris ; a week or a fortnight's 
 vacation cannot do him any harm. All work and no play 
 makes Jack a dull boy." 
 
 " Well, we can start any day you like," Lucy remarked. 
 " We'll not write to tell him we are coming, but as soon 
 as we arrive we'll just send him a letter asking him to 
 come to dinner." 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe didn't answer, and in the silence of the 
 drawing-room the click of the knitting-needles were audi- 
 ble. Coffee was brought in, and the ladies helped them- 
 selves according to their wont. 
 
 At last Lucy broke the silence. The servant had just 
 left the room. 
 
 " But if Lewis is working so hard that his brain may 
 give way — your very words, Susan — it would be well to 
 remain in Paris some weeks. Eight hours are a long 
 day's work, and you see that he tells us he works for 
 two hours more between dinner and bedtime — ten hours ! 
 You see, he admits the work is excessive, adding that 
 he doesn't care to do anything unless he does it to 
 excess. He probably works in the evening after 
 dinner because he has no place to go to. But if we 
 were to take a flat in Paris . . . what do you think, 
 Susan? " 
 
 " We must do something," Mrs. Thorpe answered, " or 
 else he'll lose his health." 
 
 Lucy did not hear any further. Her resolve was taken, 
 and her thoughts melted into dreams of drives together 
 in the Bois and through Paris after five o'clock when his 
 work was done, and after dinner, starting again out for 
 a theatre, all three, unless Susan did not like sitting up 
 late. It would be pleasanter still to sit alone with Lewis 
 in a box, hearing the French language in all its purity 
 at the Comedie Francaise. A flat would be much pleas- 
 anter than an hotel. One is never free in an hotel. But 
 a furnished flat ! Such things were not unknown in Paris, 
 
84 
 
 and a letter to John Arthur, the celebrated house-agent 
 of that time, brought them news that a large and com- 
 modious flat, consisting of several reception-rooms, six 
 bedrooms, bathrooms, servants' rooms — in a word, every- 
 thing a human being could require — was to let in the 
 Avenue Josephine. The owners were only asking four 
 hundred a year for it, and if Mrs. Bentham wrote by 
 return of post, they could walk into the flat at the end 
 of the week. The owners would leave three of their 
 servants behind if Mrs. Bentham wished to retain them. 
 Perhaps it would save Mrs. Bentham trouble if she kept 
 the Baroness's cook; the house-agent had heard she was 
 excellent. Mrs. Bentham referred the matter to Susan, 
 and Susan thought that, if they were going to live in 
 Paris for some months, no better arrangement could be 
 made. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 "AND now what day shall we ask Lewis to dinner?" 
 Lucy said. " We shall arrive on Saturday ; we cannot 
 ask him for that evening, nor on Sunday, but on Monday, 
 perhaps." And it was on Monday morning that Lewis 
 found a letter at his hotel asking him to come to dinner 
 at half-past seven at 45 Avenue Josephine. 
 
 The carriageway appealed to Lewis, who liked the 
 massive, the opulent. And it pleased him to find that 
 the concierge did not live in a little hole in the wall as 
 she did in his hotel, but in a large airy apartment over- 
 looking a courtyard; to find her well dressed and tidy; 
 to hear from her that madame was on the premier Stage; 
 to bounce through the glass doors; to run up the wide, 
 thickly carpeted staircase — so different from his own 
 staircase; to be received with joy by two delightful 
 women. The adventure was so cheering that he hardly 
 
85 
 
 knew which of the two he liked the better — Lucy or Susan. 
 Lucy, of course; but Mrs. Thorpe was so delighted to 
 see him that his heart went out to her. There was the 
 flat to look over, and Lewis foresaw endless dinners and 
 hours spent in this flat full of deep sofas and voluptuous 
 arm-chairs. No doubt the cooking was excellent; and 
 if the impossible became possible, and he were Lucy's 
 lover ! The thought was a flying one ; it passed rapidly 
 and was lost amid many other thoughts. " Was the jour- 
 ney calm? " " Had they been sea-sick? " And " How 
 long were they going to stay ? " Everything was unde- 
 cided. No date had been fixed for their return, and 
 amid many misgivings, Lewis felt he could not fail to get 
 her in the end. "But how would it come about?" he 
 asked himself; and the conversation soon after became 
 strained. They were anxious to be alone, and as she 
 could not ask Susan to go to bed, Lucy proposed a walk 
 in the Champs-Elysees. They could excuse themselves 
 for leaving her. 
 
 " A walk in the Champs-Elysees," Lewis said, " under 
 the chestnuts, where we shall hear Les Cors de Chasses 
 in green jerkins. They play every evening in the Cafe 
 des Ambassadeurs." 
 
 "You won't mind being left, Susan? " Lucy asked in 
 a confident voice that the old lady's answer justified; 
 and hearing her say she was feeling a little tired, the 
 lovers went forth without a scruple into the Avenue 
 Josephine, and, turning down the Hue Pierre Charron, 
 they found themselves a few minutes afterwards in the 
 great avenue seeking a crossing. " A little below the 
 Rond Point there is a refuge," Lewis said; and they 
 marvelled at the great procession of carriages coming 
 from and going to the Bois through the dusk of a windless 
 summer evening. All the elegant life of Paris was in 
 movement, and Lewis said that next evening they would 
 go to the Bois themselves, and sit in the Cafe de la Cas- 
 
86 
 
 cade, and eat ices and drink liqueurs amid the fashion- 
 able world. 
 
 " But the women we see lying back in those victorias 
 are not ladies, are they ? " Lucy asked ; and Lewis, pleased 
 to show his knowledge of Paris, answered carelessly that 
 they were cocottes. " ' Light-of-love' is the only term 
 we have for a courtesan that isn't contemptuous, and 
 every cocotte in Paris goes to the Bois in the evening 
 if she is not going to the theatre or to the opera. At 
 the Cascade one meets constantly Blanche d'Antigny, 
 Marie Pellegrin, Leonie Leblanc, Mary Laurent, Alice 
 Howard, and others less celebrated, though not less beau- 
 tiful. Those who have been to the Cafe Madrid are re- 
 turning, and those who are going will alight at the 
 Cascade." 
 
 " You seem to have learnt a good deal of Paris," Lucy 
 said to him. 
 
 " One hears of these women in the studio," Lewis 
 answered. " I should like to paint their portraits." 
 
 The moment had come for them to cross over, and 
 under the overhanging boughs of the pavement leading 
 from the Rond Point to the Place de la Concorde they 
 elected to sit. On their left was the Cirque d'fite, the 
 Cafe of the D'Alcasar and the Ambassadeurs. 
 
 "How pretty the garlands of lamps are," she said; 
 " and how fairy-like the foliage is under the artificial 
 light." 
 
 " The artificial lights," he said, " are looked upon by 
 some painters of Montmartre as being more attractive 
 than daylight, but not by anybody in our studio. Shall 
 we sit here among all these women? " he asked. " The 
 studio in the Passage des Panoramas is an adjunct to the 
 Beaux-Arts. The two women by us are cocottes; a 
 very low class of cocotte comes to sit here in the evening' 
 when the evenings are fine, and they go away with lovers 
 if chance favours them." 
 
87 
 
 " Do you like sitting here among these women ? " 
 Lucy asked. 
 
 " Well, yes, I do," he said. " Their faces bespeak 
 freedom from restraint, domesticity, children, and that 
 shocking word * papa.' It is difficult to express exactly 
 one's feelings in words. Freedom is the nearest word 
 that I can think of. Freedom unrestrained, unprejudiced. 
 There we have it." And Lucy wondered how it was that 
 Lewis could have become so changed in a few months. 
 She did not like to think the worst, and in some ways 
 he seemed to her more attractive; but there was a lack 
 of restraint in his talk which she feared, and she put it 
 down to the company he had been keeping. " But if he 
 has been working ten hours a day, how can he have kept 
 bad company? " she wondered. "A studio, of course, is 
 full of students, and the society of art students is always 
 unrestrained." 
 
 " Tell me — — " she said. At that moment Les Cors 
 de Chasses broke forth into a medley so vulgarly harmo- 
 nized that after a little while they wished it could cease 
 and allow them to continue their conversation, for it 
 was difficult to talk within the sound of so many brass 
 instruments; and, after all, they were more interested 
 in each other's voices than in musical instruments. 
 
 Lucy waited for Lewis to speak of his daily life in 
 the studio. He had said that the studio opened at eight. 
 
 " So you have to be up at seven to be at the studio 
 by eight ? " she asked him. 
 
 " Yes, that is about the time," he answered. " But 
 on Mondays it is as well to get there before eight, for 
 there is a new model, and those who arrive first have 
 the choice of places." 
 
 " And you work on all day," she said, " till five o'clock, 
 with an hour for luncheon? " And seeing she was 
 interested in the life at the studio, he began to tell 
 her of the professors who walked round the easels, 
 
88 
 
 stopping at every one to give advice to the student, 
 perhaps to take his pencil out of his hand and to correct 
 his drawing. There were two, Jules Lefebvre and 
 Bouguereau, academicians, both of them. Lewis was 
 not especially attracted by Bouguereau's pictures, but 
 he admired Lefebvre's studies of the female form more 
 than anything, if he were to tell the truth, he had seen 
 in the Louvre. He would have liked to talk about 
 Lefebvre, but Lucy was more curious to hear what Jules 
 Lefebvre thought of Lewis's drawings than what Lewis 
 thought of Lefebvre's pictures, and from Lewis's remarks 
 it appeared that Lefebvre thought very well of Lewis. 
 
 " He often prefers my drawings," Lewis said, " to the 
 drawings of Ducet, his favourite pupil. And he said so 
 out loud, addressing the whole studio." 
 
 " And who else," she asked, " is there in the studio? " 
 And Lewis told her of those who were well considered. 
 There was a short, silent man with a reddish beard, 
 " somewhat like Thompson," he said, " who painted his 
 own way without giving much heed to the professor; 
 and there was a tall dark fellow, very handsome," he 
 added, " with black hair and brilliant eyes." The red- 
 headed fellow, Lewis thought, always painted the model 
 a little too pink, and the dark tall man with the brilliant 
 eyes painted the model a little too violet. The rest of 
 the studio was mere riff-raff, fellows that had been sent 
 up from the art schools in the provinces to learn painting 
 because they had taken a prize in the art school ; " and, 
 of course, a great many Americans and Englishmen," 
 he said; " in all, about thirty men and ten women." 
 
 " Ten women? " Lucy said; " but I thought the model 
 was naked? " 
 
 " Yes, so she is, and he is too." 
 
 " And the ladies, do they sit in the room and draw a 
 naked model ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " Lewis answered indifferently. " There is 
 
89 
 
 a school for women on the other side of the street, hut 
 they prefer to work with us "; and then, warming to his 
 subject, he explained that no notice was taken of the 
 model except as an object of study. The model might 
 be a block of marble, a vase, a bunch of flowers — it was 
 merely an object for study. One hardly associated the 
 model with human life. All the same, he admitted that 
 it was strange to talk to a young lady from Kensington 
 of her mother and her sisters in front of a great naked 
 man. As long as the model was posing it didn't so much 
 matter; but when the model rested, and didn't wrap 
 himself in a sheet, but just flopped about, it was difficult 
 to feel quite at ease. " And then a model will call," he 
 said, " to ask for a sitting. The master cannot promise 
 him one until he has seen him, if it be a man, her, if it 
 be a woman, and so they have to undress and show 
 themselves, and the worst moment of all is when the 
 woman steps out of her drawers, or the Italian boy steps 
 out of his breeches." 
 
 " Does the supply of models never fall short ? " Lucy 
 asked. And he answered that he had never heard of a 
 lack of models. 
 
 " Once a model fell ill in the middle of the week, and 
 we couldn't get a model to finish the week, so we agreed 
 to draw lots who should sit. The women, of course, 
 were exempted; we couldn't ask the young ladies from 
 Kensington to take off their clothes." 
 
 " So one of the students sat? " 
 
 " Yes. The lot fell upon me." 
 
 " And do you mean to say, Lewis, you stood naked 
 before them all ? " 
 
 " Why not? The lot fell upon me, and they liked my 
 figure very much, and wanted me to sit through the 
 following week so that Rouneuf might finish his painting. 
 But sitting is very tiring. However, I said I would if 
 Rouneuf gave me the painting; but he wouldn't." 
 
90 
 
 " So it was never finished," Lucy said. 
 
 " No, for on second thoughts he decided to leave it as 
 a sketch. Miss Lily Saunders did a very good drawing. 
 She said that what she liked about me was my shoulders. 
 To see me in my clothes nobody would think I had such 
 a good figure. I am only repeating what they said. My 
 shoulders are square, you see; and then the body nips 
 in at the waist, and drops down in good lines to the 
 knees, and I'm long from the knees to the ankles." 
 
 " If Miss Saunders admired you so much, I wonder 
 she didn't ask you to take her out to breakfast one day." 
 
 " I don't know how it is, but I've never heard anything 
 about the men and women who work in the studios. 
 Some of the fellows go after the models, who are often 
 very pretty refined girls, and we sometimes ask the 
 model to breakfast with us if she is pretty and refined." 
 
 "And do you ever think them pretty and refined? " 
 
 " If a girl is pretty and refined I think her pretty 
 and refined, wherever I find her," Lewis answered. 
 
 " And how was it that you were never tempted ? " 
 
 " Love," he said, taking Lucy's arm, " is a great shield 
 against temptation." 
 
 "I wonder if that is so?" she answered; and they 
 walked up the Avenue together, Lewis asking why they 
 were going home so soon. " The Cafes Chantants will 
 not close for another hour," he said. 
 
 " But why should we wait? " she said, as they walked 
 on; and she passed her arm through Lewis's, drawing 
 him closer to her with an involuntary movement of which 
 she was barely conscious, for she was thinking, and 
 intently, of the temptations that beset a young man in 
 an art school, amid art students and models and young 
 women from Kensington. 
 
 She was glad that she was spending some months in 
 Paris, for during those months she would be able to 
 save Lewis from himself. " From himself," she repeated 
 
91 
 
 to herself, for it was too much to suppose that a young 
 man would live without a mistress. If he had lived all 
 these months without one it was as much as might be 
 expected. " He said it was memories of me that enabled 
 him to do so." The temptation whispered in her ear, 
 and she wished Lewis would cease speaking of the studio ; 
 she already began to hate it, with its models and its 
 young women. Again the temptation whispered that, if 
 she did not give herself to Lewis, he would sooner or later 
 go to live with one of the models; and worse still, 
 perhaps, with one of the American girls, whom he would 
 marry in the end, and once he was married he would 
 be lost to her for ever. Even if he did not marry she 
 would lose him, for the woman that gives herself to a 
 man is always much more to him than any other woman 
 can be. She could not think else. Unless she became 
 his mistress, she would be, and very soon, no more to 
 him than a sort of younger Mrs. Thorpe. 
 
 And the thought of losing Lewis, and becoming no 
 more to him than a mere acquaintance or a friend, was 
 odious to her. She must have him all to herself, and 
 her way became clearer as they passed through the 
 Eond Point. The Rue Pierre Charron ascended a little, 
 and they walked slowly, Lewis talking all the while of 
 the studio. "If he goes on talking about that studio 
 any more I shall bid him good-bye at the door," she 
 said to herself; and she was about to bid him farewell, 
 when Lewis said: 
 
 " May I not come upstairs ? " 
 
 At that moment a sudden weakness fell upon her, and 
 she answered: 
 
 " If you like ; but it's rather late." 
 
 " The concierge is in bed," he answered ; and all they 
 could hear was the beating of their own hearts. Mrs. 
 Bentham had a key, and as soon as they entered the 
 drawing-room she said that she would feel more comfort- 
 
92 
 
 able when she had got into a tea-gown. . . . She passed 
 into her room, and had not left him more than a minute 
 when it began to seem to Lewis that she was gone an 
 hour. He was standing thinking of nothing in particular, 
 when a thought came into his mind of Lily Saunders's 
 drawing. She admired his figure, and Lucy would admire 
 it if she saw it. But she mustn't come back and catch 
 him in the middle of his undressing. It wouldn't take 
 long. He could undress more quickly than she could, 
 who had stays to unclasp. He was standing in the pose 
 of the dancing faun when the door of her bedroom swung 
 over the carpet and she came into the room. 
 
 " Lewis, Lewis ! What have you done ? " And then 
 she began to laugh. " Is that the pose you chose for the 
 class? " 
 
 " No," he answered ; " it would be impossible to keep 
 this pose for long. The pose I took for the class is a 
 simpler one " ; and he threw himself into the pose. 
 " Which do you like better ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I care for naked men." 
 
 " We are so used to seeing people clothed," he 
 answered, " that nakedness seems comical to us ; isn't 
 that so ? I will show you another pose " ; and when he 
 had taken it, he told her the lines in his figure the class 
 had appreciated. " So, Lucy, a naked man isn't beautiful 
 in your eyes ? " 
 
 " I don't know that he is," she answered. " But I 
 dare say that Lily Saunders has a different opinion." 
 
 " But you don't think that I ever give a thought to 
 Lily. If you saw her you wouldn't think so." 
 
 " She's very clever, you say." 
 
 " She sometimes does a good drawing. I think she'd 
 sell the drawing she did from me. I'd buy it for you, 
 for though you don't like a naked man in the flesh, you 
 might like him in charcoal." 
 
93 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 " SO you've been all this time in Paris without going 
 anywhere except at the Louvre ; not even to Notre Dame ? " 
 Lucy said. 
 
 And he answered that he remained outside out of 
 deference to his feeling, the inside of a church bringing 
 to his mind too vividly the ideas out of which a church 
 rises and the uses to which it is put. 
 
 " So you've been nowhere except to cafes and brasseries 
 and theatres ? " 
 
 " I've been to the Luxembourg Museum, and know the 
 gardens very well." 
 
 " You've been to Versailles ? " He had heard of 
 Versailles, but never of Trianon nor of Le Petit 
 Trianon. 
 
 "History doesn't interest you? " 
 
 " I don't know that it does. One can't know every- 
 thing, and a choice is incumbent." 
 
 " You don't know who built Versailles ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I do." 
 
 " Louis XIV. You've heard of him? " 
 
 "Yes, I've heard of him; but you see, Lucy, I've to 
 get my living. I didn't come to Paris for sight-seeing, 
 but for education." 
 
 " My darling, I'm not reproaching you. One man 
 knows one thing — another, another. We all live in dif- 
 ferent worlds, and perhaps that is the reason why we 
 attract one another. If you were a lord and owned many 
 thousands of acres, it is quite possible that you might 
 never have looked my way." He refused to admit that 
 this was so. " Would you," he asked, " not have looked 
 my way if I were a rich man ? " and she conceded this 
 much — that if he were a rich man he might not have 
 captured her imagination. 
 
94 
 
 " And if you were an art student I mightn't havf 
 loved you." 
 
 " I'm sorry to hear that," she answered; and it seem- 
 ing to him that his confession had failed to please, he 
 took her in his arms: 
 
 "As you are I love you; what you would be if you 
 were an art student I don't know; nor do you know if 
 you would have loved me if I were a lord whose only 
 interests were hunting and shooting." 
 
 " When you kiss me like that you can do with me as 
 you like," she answered; and she fell to kissing him: 
 "Wait; lie still and let me look at you"; and, raising 
 herself on her elbow, she toyed with his curls, and bend- 
 ing over, kissed him on the eyes and mouth. " The time 
 will come, darling, when you will care for me no longer." 
 
 " But why look forward to that time? " 
 
 " You should have answered me that that time will 
 never come; and you'd have answered so if you loved 
 
 me truly. True love doesn't look ahead. And if " 
 
 She checked the words that had risen up in her mind, 
 deeming that it were wiser not to speak them. He did 
 not press her to speak them, for he guessed that the un- 
 spoken words were, " If I were younger you would love 
 me better " ; and after looking into her eyes, and exam- 
 ining her ears, her teeth, her hands, and declaring 
 himself enraptured with her loveliness, he said to him- 
 self she must be about thirty-five — ten years older 
 than I. 
 
 " Of what are you thinking, Lewis? " 
 " About Versailles," he said. " Do go on talking. 
 Tell who built Versailles." 
 
 " My darling, you're not interested in the history of 
 France." 
 
 He pleaded, and she began : " Versailles was built by 
 Louis XIV., a great King, who had many mistresses, like 
 Solomon, and the most romantic of all his mistresses was 
 
95 
 
 Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and the story runs that 
 the King, while hunting in the forests, heard her say 
 to her companions, who were pressing her to tell whom 
 she would like to marry if she might choose from all the 
 men in France, that the King had always been her hero 
 and her lover, and that if her dream didn't come true — 
 and she knew well enough that it couldn't — she would 
 never marry. This romantic avowal, overheard roman- 
 tically, so flattered Louis that he ordered her to his 
 Court, and loved her till he met Madame de Montespan, 
 one of Mademoiselle de la Valliere's school-fellows. To 
 be cut out by one of her school-fellows was Louise's fate. 
 One is always robbed by one's best friend; and finding 
 that the King was for ever wearied of her, and would 
 never pick up her thread again, Louise retired to a con- 
 vent. Madame de Montespan was superseded by 
 Madame de Maintenon. But, Lewis, I cannot relate two 
 centuries of French history in a single night." 
 
 " Not in detail, but tell me who succeeded Louis 
 XIV.?" 
 
 " Louis XV." » 
 
 " Was he given to mistresses ? " he asked. 
 
 She answered: "More than any other man"; and he 
 begged her to relate the rise and fall of the great Madame 
 de Pompadour, her name having captured his imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 " How we have declined," he said at the end of the 
 long narrative. " Once I thought Julia Baron, Blanche 
 d'Antigny, Marie Pellegrin and Leonie Leblanc wonder- 
 ful. They are but cocottes, whereas Madame de Pompa- 
 dour and Madame du Barry were courtesans in the finest 
 sense of the word. But how is it that you know French 
 history so well ? " And Lucy answered that English 
 history had no interest for her whatever, but French his- 
 tory was her favourite study, and of all periods the 
 Napoleonic was her specialty. She had been collecting 
 
96 
 
 Napoleonic relics for years past. He asked if Napoleon 
 was before or after the Reign of Terror. She answered 
 " After," and he wanted to know how long it lasted. 
 
 " About eighteen months. But to understand the 
 French Revolution you must know something of the pre- 
 ceding reigns. Louis XIV. was succeeded by his great 
 grandson, and, strange to say, Louis XV. was succeeded 
 by his grandson, the Dauphins having died. It doesn't 
 surprise me that you were not tempted to visit Versailles, 
 for without some knowledge of French history Versailles 
 is merely a great formal palace overlooking formal gar- 
 dens. But I cannot go on talking. Lewis, your arm is 
 beautiful. Hold it so that I can see it. I like to follow 
 the lines. If I were an artist I'd like to draw your 
 arm. Did anybody in the studio draw your arm, Lewis, 
 beautifully ? " 
 
 " Lily Saunders did a very pretty drawing. She got 
 the movement of the arm very well. I think she'd give 
 me the drawing if I were to ask for it. She'd sell it 
 certainly. Would you care to have the drawing? " 
 
 " No, I don't think I would," Lucy answered pettishly. 
 " I don't like to think of those American girls sitting 
 around, their eyes fixed upon you. I don't like to think 
 of any woman seeing you." 
 
 " But I am to Lily Saunders no more than a statue — 
 
 Antinoiis, the dancing faun, or Hermaphroditus " 
 
 " I wouldn't have you speak of yourself in connection 
 with a statue of the decadence," Lucy interjected; and 
 looking over himself, Lewis said: 
 
 " Well, there are traces of the woman in me. But why 
 should you be jealous of Lily? " 
 
 " I'm jealous because I know she'd like to get you 
 away from me, and, if they knew, how furious they would 
 all be! Who was the other, Rose Post? " 
 
97 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 "SO Louis would not impose any new taxes?" Lewis 
 asked, and Lucy began to tell that when Louis XVI. came 
 to the throne the treasury was empty, and that no new 
 taxes could be imposed on the people, so heavily were 
 they taxed already. It was the peasants and the middle 
 classes that paid taxes before the Revolution; the nobles 
 were exempt from taxation. The wars of Louis XIV. 
 and Louis XV. were paid for by the people, and like- 
 wise the palaces of the Kings. Of all, King Louis XV. 
 was the most extravagant; the presents he made to his 
 innumerable mistresses were paid for by the people and 
 the middle classes, and the expenses of the Court of 
 Louis XVI. were very heavy, and there was no money 
 to meet them, no money to pay for the endless sinecures. 
 Everything was dragged out of the people; the people 
 paid for everything. A reform was imminent, and the 
 beginning of the reformation was Louis XVI. 's refusal 
 to impose any further taxes, for he, being a good man, 
 said that if any further taxes were imposed they must 
 be imposed by the nation itself, and the nation was rep- 
 resented by a great council known as Les Etats Generaux, 
 which consisted of delegates from the people, the clergy, 
 and the aristocracy. It had not been summoned for 
 nearly two hundred years. Louis XVI. summoned it as 
 the only way out of the difficulty — a very great one, 
 because the aristocracy was averse from every project 
 of reformation; reformation meant curtailment of their 
 privileges and taxation. But Lucy could not tell him 
 much about the session of Les Etats Generaux; she only 
 remembered that Count Mirabeau came in as a repre- 
 sentative of Le Tiers Etats, that is, the people, and 
 through his eloquence it was agreed that the clergy, the 
 nobles, and the representatives of the people should all 
 
98 
 
 sit together, " and so Les Etats Generaux became more 
 and more democratic, and things, darling, began to go 
 from bad to worse, till at length the people, enraged at 
 the troops that were as usual drawn about Paris, during 
 
 the second session of Les fitats Generaux Of course 
 
 you will understand, darling, that I'm speaking from 
 memory. This is merely the roughest sketch. What was 
 I saying? . . . till the people, enraged at the sight of 
 the military, ran off to the Invalides and seized all the 
 weapons stored there, and with these overcame the 
 guards at the Bastille and liberated the prisoners." 
 
 " What happened then ? " 
 
 " As well as I remember, the law-abiding citizens 
 formed into a militia guard with a view to the main- 
 tenance of law and order; but the people were now thor- 
 oughly roused, and a great mob went away to Versailles 
 and invaded the palace. Marie Antoinette, after hastily 
 putting on her stockings and throwing a shawl over her 
 shoulders, escaped to Paris, and the Royal household 
 remained there for some months — I cannot remember how 
 long — till at length it became apparent that their lives 
 were not safe in Paris. Then the Queen's lover, Comte 
 Fersen, arranged that the King and Queen should escape 
 across the frontier, which they might easily have done if 
 they had been more careful to keep their identities hid- 
 den at the various stopping-places. As well as I remem- 
 ber, Louis might have got away if he hadn't waited while 
 a chicken was cooked. At Varens he was overtaken and 
 escorted back to Paris, he and Marie Antoinette." 
 
 " Was Comte Fersen her lover ? " 
 
 " Not in the sense that we are lovers, she had no lovers, 
 then, in the sense that we are lovers " ; and Lucy told 
 all that was known in favour of the theory that Marie 
 Antoinette's Swedish lover was but a friend. 
 
 " Can a passion ever be platonic? " Lewis asked; and 
 the question was discussed for a long while. 
 
99 
 
 " They rarely saw each other ; only at long intervals. 
 One interval was ten years, I believe," she said. " The 
 nobles," she continued, " were, so far as I can see, the 
 undoing of the King and Queen, for they would not per- 
 mit any reformation. Marie Antoinette would have liked 
 some reform of the very expensive Court, the strictness 
 of whose etiquette was almost unbearable to her. Ver- 
 sailles must have been one of the coldest palaces in the 
 world. Hot air was unknown in those days, and the eti- 
 quette was that the maids of honour should assist at the 
 Queen's dressing. They were supposed to come in as 
 soon as she came from her bathroom." 
 
 " Did they take baths in those days ? " Lewis asked. 
 " Well, that is a question," Lucy answered, " but it is 
 on record that the Queen's chemise had to be passed 
 through the hands of several ladies, the highest in rank 
 handing her the chemise, and if a lady of the Court 
 scratched at the door (the custom then was not to knock, 
 but to scratch), the door was opened to her, and the 
 Queen was kept waiting for her chemise, and sometimes 
 these interruptions happened five or six times. One day 
 it happened seven, and then the Queen said : ' This is 
 unbearable, and must cease. I cannot stand so long 
 waiting for my chemise.' " 
 
 " But was the Queen naked all the while ? " 
 Lucy did not think that she sat naked among her maids 
 of honour, and she replied to Lewis that she supposed 
 that the Queen waited in her dressing-gown. 
 
 " But if there were no baths at that time ? " Lewis in- 
 terjected, for he liked the idea of the Queen standing 
 naked while the maids of honour went again and again 
 to the door to admit a late-comer. 
 
 " It was the tedium of the etiquette of the Court of 
 Versailles that forced Marie Antoinette to take refuge 
 in the Petit Trianon, a present from her husband, and 
 
100 
 
 there all the Court used to go and pretend to be milk- 
 maids. In hoops they milked the cows and churned the 
 milk, in hoops and silk stockings. We must go to the 
 Petit Trianon. You won't care about Versailles, but 
 the trees all around the Petit Trianon are most beautiful. 
 Its rural aspects have been preserved in memory of the 
 Queen"; and Lucy began to speak of Louis XV., who 
 was a great botanist, and used the Petit Trianon for the 
 cultivation of rare trees and shrubs. " He used to spend 
 hours with his gardener considering," she said, " the 
 acclimatisation of the many strange species that were 
 brought to him from abroad." 
 
 " Flowers and women seem to have filled his life, and 
 from end to end," Lewis said, and he thought, as he lay 
 amid the pillows, he envied Louis XV. his mistresses, 
 for however successful he might be, there was no pros- 
 pect of outdoing the King. " He should have died," he 
 said, turning to his mistress and kissing her, " surrounded 
 by all the beautiful women, and been carried to the grave 
 by them. How did he die ? " 
 
 " In no wise as you would have had him die," Lucy 
 answered. " He died of virulent smallpox, so that when 
 his grave at St. Denis was opened by the Revolutionists, 
 the body had disappeared into a black liquid, whereas 
 some of the Kings that had died hundreds of years before 
 presented as fair an appearance as if they had died 
 yesterday." 
 
 " A gruesome story," was Lewis's comment. " It is 
 as if Nature wished to avenge herself for excess." And 
 they were glad to get back to the gardens and woodlands 
 about the Petit Trianon. " So Marie Antoinette and her 
 maids of honour used to milk the cows and all those beau- 
 tiful neat-herds in hoops and patches, and all the 
 courtiers in their silken breeches, sword on thigh, have 
 passed away; and the world is the same as if they had 
 never been? " 
 
101 
 
 " Not the same," Lucy answered, " for we are think- 
 ing of them." 
 
 " But our thoughts cannot bring them back, even if we 
 were to think intensely." 
 
 " They might if we were to think very intensely," she 
 said ; " but thoughts are always wandering, and by the 
 will of Providence that guides the world, so that the 
 past may really be the past." 
 
 Lewis did not understand, and begged of her to ex- 
 plain, and she said: 
 
 " Darling, I was thinking of a very strange story I 
 once heard " ; and Lewis asked her to tell this story, 
 but she said she did not like to tell it, for he did not 
 believe that the world of the spirit and the world of the 
 flesh were but two aspects of the same thing. 
 
 "Don't stir, Lucy," he cried; "but just look. Which 
 are your legs and which are mine? Is that leg yours? 
 Is this one mine ? " 
 
 " Our legs are alike," she said ; " but what has your 
 question to do with what I was saying? " 
 
 " Well, nothing," he answered ; " I was only struck 
 by the similarity. Our legs are indistinguishable in 
 black stockings." 
 
 " If you were interested in what I was saying, you 
 wouldn't have noticed our legs." 
 
 " I was most interested," he answered, " and am 
 longing to hear your story, and you must know quite 
 well that the thought wanders, but returns quickly. 
 Isn't that what you were saying — that our thoughts were 
 set wandering lest the past might never become the 
 past?" 
 
 " I did say that, and was going to tell you a story 
 about a wonderful thing that befell two gentlemen walk- 
 ing in the fields about the Petit Trianon. But I'll not 
 tell you." 
 
 " Because I admired your legs. How unjust you 
 
102 
 
 are ! " He could read in her face that she would tell him 
 the story, and was only doubtful how he might effectually 
 persuade her to relate it; to do so he allowed their talk 
 to drop, and during the intervals of silence he said: 
 " Very well, Lucy, of course if you don't like to tell the 
 story, don't tell it; but I'm sorry you should think that 
 I deny altogether the spiritual side of life." 
 
 " Tell me," she answered—" you are not altogether a 
 cynic, are you? " 
 
 He begged her to believe that he was not; and she 
 told how two gentlemen walking in the gardens and 
 woodland of the Petit Trianon became aware suddenly 
 that they were looking upon a garden and woodland 
 similar to those they had seen before, but not altogether 
 the same. " For instance," said one, " there is a brook, 
 and I am certain it was not there last year." " I was 
 thinking the same," his companion answered. " That 
 brook is new to me." A little farther on they came to a 
 staircase, and saw a page running down the steps. " Nor 
 was that flight of steps there last year. Let us follow 
 the page and perhaps he will solve the mystery." And 
 they went in search of the theatricals, deeming that the 
 page must be a performer in them. " It must be so," 
 each said to the other, " but not having an invitation we 
 shall be intruders " ; and, on leaving the gardens, they 
 began to relate to each other their experiences in detail, 
 becoming more and more convinced that a vision had 
 been vouchsafed to them. To put the matter to the test 
 they returned to the garden next day, wondering how they 
 should see it — as it was or as it had once been; and not 
 being able to discover any of the things they had seen 
 yesterday — neither the brook nor the flight of steps — 
 they went to the National Library and asked for plans 
 of the gardens as they existed in the days of Marie 
 Antoinette; and to their great surprise they found the 
 brook and the flight of steps; likewise information to 
 
103 
 
 the effect that the Queen's pages were always running 
 down that flight of steps they had seen. 
 
 " But, Lucy, to substantiate your theory, the two 
 gentlemen should have gone to the Petit Trianon desir- 
 ing so ardently to see Marie Antoinette that their desires 
 were able to call her out of the shades." 
 
 " They saw her painting," Lucy interjected. 
 
 " And your explanation is that the two men were think- 
 ing so intently of the time when Marie Antoinette went 
 forth with her ladies to milk the cows that the past re- 
 turned responsive to their prayer? " 
 
 " No ; that is not my explanation. As far as I remem- 
 ber, the gentlemen declared that they were not thinking 
 of Marie Antoinette. The page they saw was a phantom, 
 a ghost, an image thrown back from the past. But of 
 what are you thinking, Lewis ? " 
 
 " Of you, dear — of your figure ; you are as slender as 
 a young girl. You could pose in the studio. Your 
 breasts are the same as they always were." 
 
 " I'm a little thicker in the hips than I used to be; but 
 I don't think I've changed much. We both have long 
 slim legs, undistinguishable in black stockings. But tell 
 me, why do you wear black stockings? " 
 
 " Because I used to wear shoes, and my socks kept 
 slipping, and the suspenders that men wear to hold up 
 their socks hurt." 
 
 " Is that the only reason, Lewis? . . . And now, 
 Lewis, we are both very tired; we have talked and talked 
 again, and it is broad daylight, and neither you nor I 
 can keep our eyes open. Good-bye, darling, till the 
 afternoon. When the studio closes, you will find us 
 about five o'clock." 
 
 And, kissing her, he said he would not go to the 
 studio. He might go there in the afternoon for an hour 
 or two; but perhaps it would be better to forego the 
 studio. " Every dog deserves a holiday, and I haven't 
 
104 
 
 missed an hour for many and many a month. I will let 
 to-morrow be a holiday — a thanksgiving for last night." 
 He kissed her again, and in a revival of love they lay 
 in each other's arms for quite a long while, and it was 
 through a happy weariness of spirit and flesh that she 
 heard the door sweep over the carpet, and thought that 
 she would fall asleep at once. But as soon as he was 
 gone thought began to quicken in her, and she remem- 
 bered that she had gotten at last something to live for, 
 something to love. She would see Lewis every day. 
 Only a few hours and she would see him again. He had 
 said he was not going to the studio, and might come to 
 breakfast. After breakfast they might go for a drive, 
 as he was not working in the studio that day. And after 
 dinner they might go to the opera. How delightful the 
 returning would be: to hear him talking to her and to 
 know that she was talking to him ! How wonderful ! 
 And to forget all the world ! She had almost forgotten 
 it already. Nothing seemed to matter but this fever of 
 anticipation; never to sink back into the lethargy she had 
 come out of, but to have Lewis always present before 
 her in her mind. How wonderful ! She had been seek- 
 ing him always; he had been her quest, and she had 
 found him. 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 " ARE you sure, Lewis, that French history — this hobby 
 of mine — has any interest for you? " 
 
 Lewis answered that he could not go through life with- 
 out knowing who built Versailles, and who milked the 
 cows at Trianon and made the butter ; and he said that 
 he was impatient to hear how the shrieks of Madame du 
 Barry on the scaffold brought the Reign of Terror to an 
 end. In answer to his asseverations Lucy told him that 
 
105 
 
 the King and Queen and all their nobles met their deaths 
 with stoic indifference — Marie Antoinette without a sigh, 
 without a tear. She had suffered so much that the day 
 of her death must have seemed to her happy; if not 
 happy, at least less terrible than many days she had 
 lived through. 
 
 " We are now going," she continued, " to the Con- 
 ciergerie " ; and as they drove to it she told him it was 
 originally the palace of the early Kings of France — of 
 the Crusader, St. Louis, the King who went to Palestine 
 several times and killed many Arabs in his attempt to 
 recover the Holy Sepulchre, and place it for evermore in 
 Christian hands. She said that the chapel still existed 
 in ruins or intact — she did not know which; but remem- 
 bered that during the Revolution the Conciergerie was 
 the principal prison. " We shall be taken," she con- 
 tinued, " through the kitchens of St. Louis's palace, now 
 the Buvette des Avocats ; and it was in that room every 
 prisoner was received, and it was from that room every 
 prisoner went to the tumbril that waited to take him to 
 the scaffold. Aren't you moved ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I am," he said ; but in truth the walls 
 were mute to him, and without Lucy's face to read would 
 have had no meaning at all. 
 
 After leaving the Conciergerie he hoped she would pro- 
 pose a visit to the Louvre, but they drove to the Convent 
 des Carmes, and Lewis learnt that it was here the prel- 
 ates were all massacred. After the priest was tried and 
 acquitted of all wrongdoing, the formula was, " Laissez 
 passer monsieur " ; and thinking that he had escaped 
 both prison and guillotine, the priest walked out into the 
 open air to be killed by the pikemen. One priest man- 
 aged to escape into the garden, and Lucy related how 
 the assassins allowed the priest to think he had succeeded 
 in eluding them, uttering words to deceive him, asking 
 each other if he had escaped over the wall, knowing well 
 
106 
 
 that no escape was possible. " He must," they said, 
 " have climbed up some tree, and from thence dropped 
 from a branch on to the wall." These words were 
 spoken to inspire hope, it being judged that his punish- 
 ment could be increased by the false hopes. " So there 
 he is ! " was the cry as soon as the man emerged from his 
 hiding-place; and the hunting began again. " These 
 huntings were known as the cassock-hunting," Lucy 
 said. 
 
 As soon as they returned to the victoria the coachman 
 asked them whither they would like to go, and to please 
 Lucy Lewis said that he would like to see other remem- 
 berable places; but Lucy told him that they had seen the 
 two principal places — many others there had been, but 
 these were swept away, everybody being anxious to rid 
 himself of the painful associated memories. But there 
 were old palaces that she would like to show him, and 
 they drove about, visiting different sights. La Place des 
 Vosges, she told him, was the most fashionable quarter 
 in Paris at one time; it was now given up to small trades- 
 men and their families. The last great man that had 
 lived there was Victor Hugo. Lewis cried out, " Paris 
 is wonderful ! " and they drove day after day through 
 Paris, visiting old streets and churches and inns, Lucy 
 relating stories, till at length she began to speak of the 
 French country of which Lewis knew nothing, and she 
 told him of the palaces that the Kings of France had 
 built in the country of the Loire: if he wished to learn 
 French history in an agreeable manner they might 
 journey from castle to castle, and from the guide that 
 would conduct them through the rooms he would learn 
 a good deal more of the history of France than she could 
 tell him. 
 
 " Blois is but an hour or two from Paris," she said; 
 and the next day the train took them to a pleasant sunny 
 town by a deep river, at the sight of which Lewis said, 
 
107 
 
 " Is that really the Loire ? " and he thought that if he 
 ever made sufficient money by painting he would like to 
 buy a house in Blois with a large garden about it. The 
 house and garden of his imagination occupied his thoughts 
 more than the castle did; Lucy thought that he hardly 
 saw it, but he assured her that he admired the spiral stair- 
 case designed — so it was said — by Leonardo da Vinci. 
 The state-rooms seemed to him too formal, and he said 
 that life must have been dreary in the castle; but he was 
 interested in the pictures, especially in one of a holy 
 family painted by Ingres, in the manner of Raphael. 
 He thought it better than Raphael; and they went 
 away to Souches and went through many rooms and 
 heard stories of the Kings of France: how they lived 
 and died — very often murdered. From thence they pro- 
 ceeded to Amboise, and heard more stories of Kings and 
 Princes and great nobles, and the impression left upon 
 their minds was that all these rich people lived in cold 
 palaces insufficiently warmed by great wood fires, scent- 
 ing themselves instead of washing, for bathrooms were 
 almost unknown in the eighteenth century, only bidets; 
 " and that shallow vessel," Lewis said, " has become the 
 symbol of the eighteenth century ... of its ideas and 
 sensations," he added after a pause. "Isn't that so?" 
 he asked, and as she did not answer, he concluded that 
 she was dreaming of the discomfort of living without a 
 bath, she saw the great nobles going forth on palfreys 
 with hawks on their wrists. One day, as they emerged 
 from a close of ancient walls, Lewis said: "Lucy, the 
 country is beautiful, but it is smug. Even our South of 
 England is not as smug as the country of the Loire, in 
 which the men seem to fish admirably from morning to 
 evening, watching their floats carried down by the slow 
 current — emblems of hope and patience." 
 
 " But do they catch anything? " she asked, and he said 
 that was a secondary consideration. 
 
108 
 
 "It is plain that they fish admirably"; and the joke 
 became one of their little intimacies, a little secret to 
 ■which they could return with pleasure, and which united 
 them — a sort of communion. 
 
 " You will like Fontainebleau better," she said, and 
 he answered: 
 
 " Fontainebleau is in a forest country, and I've never 
 seen a forest. We have no forests in England of any 
 great extent, and who wouldn't like to visit a palace in 
 a forest?" 
 
 And a few days after this remark they were in Fon- 
 tainebleau walking towards the palace, and having 
 listened to the guide's patter till their brains were weary 
 of it, they walked into the gardens and stood leaning over 
 the balustrade, conscious of the great history that lay 
 behind. They had seen the room in which Napoleon had 
 signed the treaty of abdication. But he was, after all, 
 only an intruder, not having added one high roof to the 
 castle, nor brought a statue hither; nor was he even re- 
 sponsible for the furniture in the castle, nor for the 
 designs of the gardens. This was Lewis's view, but Lucy 
 would have been only faintly interested in Fontainebleau 
 if Napoleon had not been there, and if the treaty of abdi- 
 cation had not been signed in the castle. The French 
 Kings had looked upon Fontainebleau as a hunting-lodge; 
 so there must have always been a place of some sort at 
 Fontainebleau. 
 
 One of the Henrys built a house for his mistress in 
 the environs of the town, and Lewis, always interested 
 in mistresses, cried aloud that they must go to see her 
 house. " La belle Gabrielle," he repeated again and 
 again. " Who knows but we may see her vanish at the 
 end of a gallery, or come upon her leaning over a 
 balcony, watching the sun setting? Do you know any 
 other story, Lucy, of the past returning suddenly? " and, 
 after thinking a moment, she remembered another revival 
 
109 
 
 of the past, coming suddenly upon a party of Florentines 
 
 that had gone into some woods and were sitting at 
 
 breakfast under the trees. A naked woman came through 
 
 the brambles torn and bleeding, and the dogs that hunted 
 
 her were followed by a huntsman in green hat and jerkin. 
 
 And when he was asked why he urged the hounds to 
 
 attack the woman, he related that it was his privilege to 
 
 wreak vengeance through eternity upon the woman who 
 
 had deceived him. " An Italian folk-tale, no doubt, but 
 
 containing, perhaps, a little truth," she said to herself, 
 
 and at that moment became conscious that the evening 
 
 closing slowly over the gardens had befallen not once, 
 
 but ten thousand times before — the same blue fading into 
 
 roseate grey, without a cloud, without a wind, had been 
 
 admired by ladies in hoops and powders and high wigs. 
 
 Nor was she the first woman that had followed her lover 
 
 round these fish-ponds admiring the evening. The same 
 
 evening and the same dreams had been entertained by 
 
 how many women? At every moment she felt the vision 
 
 to be imminent. As none appeared, she inclined to the 
 
 belief that her thoughts were not intent. If she could 
 
 only detach her mind from the present, the past might 
 
 reappear — if not to Lewis, to her. She asked herself 
 
 if it be not true that every eye sees things that no other 
 
 eye sees. ... If Lewis was away she might have been 
 
 able to detach herself from the present, but he was by her 
 
 side, and she in the joy of living. A year and a half, 
 
 nearly two years, had passed since the day she saw 
 
 Lewis for the first time in Mr. Carver's shop. She was 
 
 then thirty-four, now she was thirty-six. A year of 
 
 the short time of life allowed a woman for love had been 
 
 wasted, and in ten years she would be no longer fit for 
 
 love. She might keep him for ten years, but after ten 
 
 years she would have to hand him over to another woman, 
 
 whom he would marry, and who would bear him children ; 
 
 and she wondered who this woman would be, and if 
 
110 
 
 the wife would suffer when she learnt that she was not 
 his first love, Lewis having had a mistress for many 
 years. Would she, the mistress, hate the wife? And 
 would she suffer at this surrender of her happiness, and 
 retire gracefully into middle age? 
 
 She turned to admire the young man by her side, and 
 his grace as he leaned over the balustrade brought a 
 swimming behind the eyes. She might retain him for 
 some ten or a dozen years, till she was forty-five; at 
 fifty a woman's life is really over, and she began to 
 wonder how the sensual coil would break ; if weariness or 
 some accident would break it; or the arrival of another 
 woman, a misfortune that might befall her at any 
 moment, for she could see that all attracted him, he being 
 a very young man. 
 
 One of the first pieces of worldly wisdom she learned 
 from her husband was that a man did not care for a 
 woman for more than a year or eighteen months unless 
 she produced a child. If she did, love began again, and 
 on a new lease. He had a good knowledge of human 
 nature, and what he said had a ring of truth about it; 
 he had had experience among women, and said they were 
 the same as men. Women had tired of him sometimes 
 before he had begun to tire of them: he had been flung 
 out. The words " flung out " frightened her, and she 
 asked herself if it could be her fate to be flung out. 
 Would it not be better to break with Lewis? But that 
 she could not do, any more than she could throw herself 
 over the balustrade into the fish-ponds; and she took 
 refuge in the thought that we continue to live though we 
 know we shall die some day for certain; and, despite the 
 possibility of dying of some painful disease, we continue 
 to live because it is such a natural thing to live, and in 
 like manner it is a natural thing for a woman to yield to 
 a man and to love him despite his faults. . . . She knows 
 them, but knowledge does not help us to shape our lives 
 
Ill 
 
 ■wisely; they are shapen for us; and she fell to thinking 
 of the progress Lewis had made during the year and the 
 success he had been in Paris. He was thought highly of 
 by the professors, for they had adjudged to him prizes, 
 saying that his natural genius was of the decorative 
 order, and the essential now was for him to try to improve 
 the quality of his painting. The quality of his painting 
 had improved — her own eyes told her that : " The Road 
 in the Woods " was beautiful, the best thing he had 
 done; he thought so himself, and she liked to think that 
 her influence had counted for something in the develop- 
 ment of his talent. It was she who had discovered the 
 lake, high up on the top of the rocky hill; and seeing 
 in it a subject for a picture, she had brought him to it. 
 It was her point of view he had painted. A man usually 
 owed a good deal of his inspiration to his mistress. The 
 Fornarina revealed to Raphael the beauty of women, and 
 Rubens's artistic debt to his wives is admitted by every- 
 body. It was a pity she was not ten years older; if she 
 were forty-five she would adopt Lewis. But the part of 
 a mother would be a cold portion; and overcome by a 
 sudden remembrance, she cried out within herself, " Only 
 one relation is possible." 
 
 " Of what are you thinking, Lewis ? " 
 
 "Thinking?" he replied. "I was just wondering 
 what you were thinking of? How many minutes is it 
 since we have spoken? " 
 
 " A minute, two minutes," she answered. " It isn't 
 necessary to be always speaking, is it? Sometimes I 
 think one is nearer in silence than in speech. And you, 
 Lewis ? Of what were you thinking ? " 
 
 " I was thinking that we might walk across the park 
 through the great trees to Changis. The nightingales 
 sing there, and afterwards we might go to Barbizon and 
 dine at the inn, and come back through the forest at 
 midnight. Do you remember the birds the other night? 
 
112 
 
 There seemed to be as many nightingales in the forest 
 as there were stars in the sky. I shall never forget that 
 midnight. How the birds called to each other and sang 
 against each other, each striving for mastery, pure flames 
 of song! Do you remember, we called to the coachman 
 to stop so that we might listen to the birds ? " 
 
 " Of course I remember," she answered. " It was as 
 you said — nightingales everywhere in the dark branches 
 and a sky full of stars." 
 
 " We scarcely spoke during the rest of the drive. Why 
 is it, can you tell me, Lucy — why are sensual moments 
 the most illusive ? The two hours we spent in each other's 
 arms are not as clearly remembered as the moment we 
 listened to the birds singing." 
 
 " We remember intellectual emotions better than 
 bodily." 
 
 " I suppose that is it. The flesh forgets its pleasures 
 and its pains, one as easily as the other; and yet " 
 
 The conversation fell, and Lucy did not dare to ask 
 if he had thought of her before he dropped asleep; nor 
 did she dare to tell him that when he left her room she 
 had slipped out of bed and stood in her nightgown 
 looking at his sketches, and that she remained looking at 
 them till she feared she was getting cold, and ran back 
 to bed. 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 
 ONE evening they heard that Fontainebleau had a poet, 
 or, to speak more exactly, Valvins, a riverside village 
 some three and a half miles distant; and as the need of 
 some occupation was upon them it occurred to Lucy to 
 inquire for the poet's works as they walked through the 
 town. But the bookseller to whom she addressed herself 
 could not furnish her with any verses by Mallarme, the 
 
113 
 
 poet being averse from collecting his poems, preferring 
 to leave this task to posterity rather than to undertake 
 it himself. He contributed poems to reviews, but, as far 
 as the bookseller knew, he had only once published a 
 considerable poem — some three or four hundred lines — a 
 leaflet which, of course, he would be glad to procure for 
 them. 
 
 A few days afterwards a parcel came to their hotel, 
 whifh on opening was found to contain Mallarme's 
 poem — a miracle of typography on the finest Japanese 
 paper, and adorned with three illustrations by Manet. 
 
 " The illustrations are rubbish," Lewis said. " The 
 man has never learned to draw." 
 
 Lucy liked the golden strings and tassels, and their 
 imagination was stirred by the title, L'Apres-midi d'wi 
 Faune. They applied themselves to the poem, perceiving 
 with joy that it was written in words every one of which 
 they had seen before and understood. All the same, they 
 were never sure of the poet's meaning — at one moment 
 they held it, and a moment after it was gone; and they 
 pursued it through a mist of conjecture, till at last, 
 tantalised by the ever-escaping meaning, they returned to 
 the bookseller to ask him if he could construe some three 
 or four verses that puzzled them especially. 
 
 After some application of mind and eyes to the text 
 the bookseller handed the leaflet back, saying that they 
 had better take their difficulties to the poet himself: he 
 was a professor of the English language in one of the 
 State colleges in Paris, and was very notable for his 
 courtesy to visitors, and of all to English visitors. 
 
 "The tramway would take you to Changis," he said; 
 " and from there, by gentle descent through the outskirts 
 of the forest, you will reach the Seine, and after crossing 
 the bridge turn to the left. You cannot fail to find his 
 house. There are only about a dozen houses in Valvins; 
 the first passer-by will direct you." 
 
114 
 
 With these directions in their minds they went forth, 
 but they missed the way many times from Changis to the 
 river, and had to turn back and follow a different path; 
 but all the paths were overhung with pleasant branches, 
 so it did not matter, and after debouching from one of 
 these they came upon the Seine suddenly, and stood 
 looking up and down the deep, tranquil river, enchanted 
 by the aspects, and amused by their adventure — their 
 search for a poet who would make plain three puzzling 
 lines to them. 
 
 " His cottage must be one of that group," Lewis said. 
 
 " But these cottages are but peasant cottages," Lucy 
 answered. " Do you know, Lewis, I am beginning to 
 feel nervous; he may look upon our visit as an imperti- 
 nence. What do you think? " 
 
 " All the same we cannot leave Fontainebleau with the 
 meaning of those three lines still upon our minds." 
 
 " Do you know, Lewis, I think I have got the meaning. 
 It came to me in one of those forest lanes. Won't you 
 listen? " 
 
 " My dear Lucy, I listened to you all last evening, 
 but having come so far, I'd like to see the poet and 
 receive his own interpretation of the obscure passage. 
 We'll cross the bridge and ask one of the fishermen on 
 the other side to point out the poet's house to us." 
 
 " The fourth house," the fisherman answered ; and as 
 soon as they were admitted into the kitchen their eyes 
 fell on certain rare pieces of furniture. " Pieces that 
 owe some of their attractiveness to their association with 
 the poet in a humble dwelling," Lewis was saying when 
 the door opened, and Lewis had not time to close the lid 
 of the escritoire he was examining. An awkward moment, 
 surely, but the poet passed over it easily by opening the 
 escritoire for inspection and telling how he had become 
 the owner of some quite genuine pieces. 
 
 " After the war," he said, " the authorities, deeming 
 
115 
 
 it unlikely that the castle would ever be inhabited again, 
 had the furniture taken out of the servants' rooms and 
 sold by auction. . . . May I offer you a cigarette? " he 
 asked. " Madame does not object to smoking? The 
 nineteenth-century poet is glad to live amongst the 
 off-scourings of the eighteenth." 
 
 He had already won them over, and they sat listening 
 to him, charmed by his courtesy, his affability, and, of 
 all, by the pure Voltairean French that came off his 
 tongue like silk. It seemed as if they were listening to 
 French for the first time, and their pleasure was 
 heightened by the contrast his spoken word presented 
 to his written; one was so difficult, the other so easy, 
 and his naturalness so insidious that already they had 
 begun to think he did not seek the contrasts that surprised 
 and almost repelled them at first. He accepted them 
 without question, as a man accepts the colour of his 
 eyes and the shape of his nose. No doubt this was so, 
 and the thought brought them to the study of his appear- 
 ance, which till now had escaped their scrutiny. 
 
 They found it typical, but enhanced by many special 
 accents: A French peasant he seemed to them; a 
 handsome rustic of middle age and medium height, but on 
 looking closer they had to acknowledge that his features 
 were finer than a peasant's. The nose showed some 
 beautiful modelling, and the pale, kindly eyes lighted up 
 an oval face, framed in a close-cut brown beard. He wore 
 a flowing, almost military, moustache, and Lucy watched 
 him take tobacco out of a rare Oriental pot. While he 
 rolled his cigarette she noticed how carefully clipped his 
 nails were, and it was his nails that decided her that the 
 real man was a dandy. Lewis came to the same conclusion 
 almost at the same time, saying to himself, " He wears 
 rough clothes," and overlooking the trousers and the 
 hang of the jacket, he added: "He's just one of those 
 
116 
 
 men who would go to a first-class tailor and say : ' I want 
 you to make me a suit of peasant's clothes.' " 
 
 As soon as his cigarette was lighted the poet returned 
 to his scheme for an entirely new departure in dramatic 
 writing; and, seeing that he had captured Lucy's enthu- 
 siasm, he opened a drawer and showed her a bundle of 
 tiny notebooks, saying that it was on Japanese paper 
 that he put down the thoughts that came to him in walks 
 in the forest and in his boat on the river. 
 
 " Thoughts connected with your drama ? " Lucy said, 
 and she begged him to disclose the people of the play 
 to her. 
 
 " There are but two," he answered. " A young man, 
 the last of a noble family, a poet living alone in a 
 ruined castle, uncertain whether he is called upon to 
 go out to the wars and add to the glory of the family 
 by some signal act, or whether it would be better for 
 him to engage in commerce and make great sums of money 
 and build up the family fortunes again. He is not sure 
 of himself, and every time he puts the question to himself 
 the wind answers him with the word, ' Oui,' long drawn 
 out, resembling the sound of the wind in a ruined tower. 
 It is part of the genius of the French language that the 
 wind in a ruined tower should always be trying to 
 pronounce the word, ' Oui.' " 
 
 Lucy asked the poet if the play would be performed 
 in Paris, and the poet passed over the question. It did 
 not seem to her that he answered it directly. He seemed 
 to foresee himself travelling from fair to fair, inter- 
 preting his play himself from a tilt-cart, and she began 
 to wonder if he preferred an audience of rustics rather 
 than one of the sophisticated Parisians. And then, her 
 mood changing, she entertained the thought that Mal- 
 larme's desire to interpret his own drama from under a 
 tilt was in keeping with his aversion from a collected 
 
117 
 
 edition of his poems during his lifetime. He wished to 
 return to the versifying vagabond — to Villon. 
 
 There is something of Villon in us all, in every poet's 
 heart, and the eternal Villon had led this professor of 
 English in a State college to buy a peasant's cottage in 
 the neighbourhood of a forest, and to dream of himself 
 as a mummer travelling with a show: a young man, the 
 last of an ancient line, listening to the wind in a ruined 
 tower. We would all escape from the coil of civilisation, 
 and the very title and the obscure diction of L'Apres-midi 
 d'un Faune testifies to a soul in revolt. But the precise 
 versification presents some difficulties. Ah, we are subject 
 to more souls than one. . . . 
 
 It was in this way that Mallarme became comprehen- 
 sible to Lucy. He was trying, as we all are, to escape 
 from ourselves, and she fell to thinking of Marie 
 Antoinette milking the cows at the Petit Trianon. 
 
 " The same thing," she said to herself, and at that 
 moment she remembered that the afternoon was slipping 
 by, and that they must be thinking of departure — but 
 they must not go before asking for a translation of the 
 enigmatic verses into Voltairean French. The rest of 
 the poem they hoped to puzzle out for themselves, and, 
 summoning all her courage, Lucy confessed that her 
 French never seemed to her so inadequate as it did while 
 reading L'Apres-midi d'un Faune. 
 
 " The language you write," she said, " is not the 
 language of the streets." 
 
 " No, it is not," the poet answered. " The painter, 
 the sculptor, and the musician have special languages, 
 and therefore only the general significance of their work 
 is understood by the public. You were kind enough to 
 say that you found beauty in my poem: is not that 
 enough? My poem brought you to me. It has achieved 
 already a great deal. The revelation has begun, and 
 
118 
 
 any explanation from me would only divide us. To be 
 with you always, I must not lift the veil." 
 
 " But we fear," Lucy interjected, " we shall never 
 understand the passage beginning with the word ' Alors,' 
 when the faun awakens — I mean when his sexual appetite 
 awakens. We would know if his desire is concerned 
 with the nymphs that are bathing or with the water-lilies. 
 Would this be a true interpretation of the sense ? " she 
 asked. ' ' Then I shall awaken to my primal ardour, 
 erect and solitary, under an antique flood of light, Lily, 
 and one of you all (the reward) for my ingenuousness.' " 
 
 " I can only repeat," the poet said, with a look of 
 gratification on his face, " that the interpretation of my 
 poem is henceforth with you, and you will forgive me 
 if I am averse from robbing the poem of all chance of 
 future life in your hearts." 
 
 On these words he turned the conversation from his 
 poem to the morning illumination of the river, mentioning 
 that his boat was awaiting him in the reeds. 
 
 " You will come," he said, " for a sail with me, for I 
 am indebted to you for my boat — at least for part of it. 
 It was bought with the five hundred francs that the 
 bookseller paid me for it, and you paid ten francs for 
 your copy of L'Apres-midi d'un Faune. My wife," he 
 said, introducing them to a long, thin female, who 
 reminded them of a dried herring in a bonnet, and to 
 an amiable daughter, who had inherited a good deal of 
 her father's beauty. 
 
 His family accepted the introduction, apologising for 
 their intrusion. They did not know that M. Mallarme 
 was receiving visitors. " And my husband always has tea 
 in the afternoon." 
 
 " To-day we will have tea an hour later. My friends 
 here are kind enough to say that they will go for a sail 
 with me." 
 
119 
 
 The family bowed as they retired through the door, 
 and the poet led his visitors out of the house. 
 
 " This is my first day sailing," he said, and they were 
 not very far from the bank when this fact became plain. 
 A puffing wind caused the boat to heel over, and they 
 would have all found themselves in the water if Lewis 
 had not thrown all his weight over on the other side. 
 
 " A narrow escape," Lewis said. 
 
 " I hope you're not frightened," the poet said, turning 
 to Lucy, who by this time had obtained sufficient control 
 of her voice to answer that she always felt safe with 
 Lewis — a plain avowal of her love. But Mallarme's tact 
 was equal to the occasion, and neither that day nor the 
 next, nor any of the succeeding days, did he ever allow 
 the lovers to think for a moment that he had divined their 
 secret. 
 
 " Mr. Seymour is, I can see, a skilful yachtsman. We 
 are both safe while he is in charge of the sheet," thereby 
 pleasing Lucy, the end he had in view. Lucy smiled 
 acquiescence, her smile seemed to the poet a permission 
 for him to steer up and down the current, and along the 
 broad, bright banks sloping steeply upwards to the forest. 
 
 " You will always remember," the poet said, as he 
 handed the lady ashore, " that after crossing the bridge 
 you turn to the left: my cottage is the third. You see, 
 I do not fear explanation when I want my guests to 
 arrive in time for breakfast. I may add that my wife 
 would never forgive me if, through my fault, you were late 
 for her breakfast. She sets much store upon her cooking." 
 
 " The day after, Monsieur Mallarme," Lewis said, 
 " you will turn to the right, for you have promised to 
 dine with us at the inn. Now, with kind regards to your 
 wife and daughter, we thank you very much. We have 
 received more than we expected. Then, to-morrow." 
 
 " Isn't he charming? " Lucy said, when they had bidden 
 
120 
 
 the poet good-bye. " We have spent a most enjoyable 
 day, as agreeable as unexpected. He's not a bit like 
 what I imagined him to be. Every incident seems to 
 contribute to our happiness: this poet and the river-side 
 inn over yonder. I was so anxious to leave Fontainebleau ; 
 it was beginning to be tiresome, and now the poet and 
 the inn will give us a fresh start, and we shall probably 
 stay here for some days longer." 
 
 And for a week the poet came and dined with them 
 at the inn, or they breakfasted with him in his hamlet, 
 and the three spent long days together in the open air, 
 returning home tired and looking forward to next day's 
 adventure. 
 
 There were no empty days, and ten had passed away 
 before they began to see that it would be without meaning 
 to remain any longer in Valvins. All the same there was 
 sadness in the thought that this river-side adventure was 
 but a moment in their lives. 
 
 " If we stay any longer we shall lose a pleasant 
 memory," Lucy said on their way back to Paris. " Things 
 are always falling behind us ; and don't you think, Lewis, 
 we would enjoy life less if it ceased to flow like a river?" 
 
 " But shall we never see Valvins again? " Lewis asked. 
 
 " We may see it again," she answered, " but it will 
 never be the same Valvins: Valvins is now a memory." 
 
 And, taking up her thread of thought, he said: 
 
 " It will be memory that will never grow less, but will 
 increase and multiply in imagination as the years go by." 
 
 His words seemed strange to him. He regretted 
 having spoken them, and to put them out of Lucy's mind 
 he said that he was glad to return to his art. 
 
 " My painting is an excuse for breaking up our honey- 
 moon," he said. 
 
 To which she replied : " It is not broken up, Lewis ; 
 we shall continue to live it in Paris." 
 
121 
 
 " Yes," he said, and it was then that he had broached 
 the subject, " not only in the flat, but in my studio." 
 
 " In your studio, Lewis ? " 
 
 He had drawn enough models, and must return to 
 himself — to his dreams. She asked him if he thought he 
 was doing well to leave the Beaux-Arts, but lent a willing 
 ear to his assertion that long hours of work in a public 
 studio wore away the natural spontaneous artist that 
 alone was of any value. He had drawn, he said, from 
 the model long enough, and the argument he put forward 
 to prove that the Beaux-Arts was a bane could not be 
 well gainsaid. " Every year," he said, " an artist wins 
 the Prix de Rome, but no great artist — except Ingres — 
 ever won it, from which it seems to me that we must 
 conclude that education is detrimental " ; and convinced 
 that he had learnt as much as he could carry away, he 
 returned to designing, which, he said, was himself, and 
 to his portrait of Lucy, which, though a portrait in 
 essentials, was a decorated surface. 
 
 In his studio was a piano, an organ, and a violin. He 
 had what is known as a good ear, and could ramble over 
 the keys and strings at great length, and Lucy listened 
 to his performance on all three instruments with equal 
 pleasure; and for some reason which she could not 
 explain, her love for him seemed to reach its height when 
 he laid aside his fiddle after playing some fashionable 
 melody. He used to sing words by Ronsard to a volup- 
 tuous undulating rhythm, till she could bear it no longer, 
 and, bending over the arm-chair, waited for him to come 
 and kiss her from behind on the neck. And the combat 
 over, they went forth shopping together. 
 
 " You won't lose patience, darling? I have some hats 
 waiting at Esther Myers's." 
 "Who is Esther Myers?" 
 " The great milliner." 
 
122 
 
 " But who can tell you better than I which hat to 
 choose ? " 
 
 He liked seeing money spent lavishly, and it amused 
 him to hear her order hat after hat, toque after toque, 
 and to say you must wear that one when you come to see 
 me, and she replied with a verse: 
 
 " Elle mettait son beau chapeau, son chapeau bleu." 
 
 She did not know any more of the sonnet, but thought 
 that the lover lived on the cinquieme. If so, the last 
 words would be " je t'aime." . . . She tried to remember, 
 but at that moment the brougham turned into the Rue 
 de la Paix and stopped before Worth's great doorway, 
 when a liveried footman came forward to open the door 
 of the brougham, and liveried footmen showed them into 
 the great man's consulting-room. At both ends were 
 large mirrors, two that could be moved about at discre- 
 tion; the others were fixed in the wall. On the right 
 was a high desk, where a clerk waited to take down an 
 inspiration as it came from the master's lips. 
 
 After a few preliminary questions the great man said, 
 sinking back on the green velvet divan: 
 
 " Will you kindly walk this way so that I may catch 
 the character of your shoulders ? " 
 
 Lucy passed across the room and stopped. Worth 
 did not speak, but motioned her with his hand to walk 
 back again, and after some moments of deep meditation 
 he murmured : " Florentine bronze, tinted, falling over 
 a bouillonne pleating of pale moonlight blue " ; then 
 after a pause he added : " The front also blue, closely 
 gathered more than half-way down." 
 
 The inspiration then seemed to have left him and he 
 moved uneasily on the divan of dark green velvet. The 
 assistant waited at his desk, pen in hand, and the silence 
 was full of much uneasy solemnity. After some moments 
 the master murmured " Flounces," and his brows con- 
 
123 
 
 tracted like those of a poet. Lucy and Lewis approved 
 of the flounces, but Worth shook his head, and with the 
 candour of genius admitted that something lacked; for 
 the moment he could not say what, and was on the point 
 of asking Mrs. Bentham to call another day, when Lewis 
 hinted that the top might be partially concealed by some 
 handsome bronze and gold bead trimming. " An admir- 
 able suggestion," the master said, and added with an 
 expression of triumph: "forming a garland of fringed 
 leaves." 
 
 Three-quarters of an hour were spent in discussing the 
 shape of the body, also in brown satin; and after giving 
 ear to all their suggestions, Worth decided it was to be 
 cut in the shape of a heart. 
 
 " Now, Lewis, I'm going to the Bois and will leave you 
 at your studio." 
 
 He pleaded to be allowed to go with her, but she said 
 that to drive through the Bois with her in the afternoon 
 would advertise them as lovers to all Paris. She did not 
 wish to be talked about, for she was beginning to be 
 known in Paris. And it was on her lips to tell him that 
 he was neglecting his painting, but she refrained from 
 reproaching him, afraid lest she might exhibit herself 
 in the light of a schoolmistress. " I may lead," she said 
 to herself, for she was not without tact, " but I must not 
 attempt to drive." No, indeed, she was not without tact, 
 and knew how to introduce him to her friends without 
 compromising herself, and she persuaded him that they 
 must present a reasonable appearance to the world. It 
 was all right for him to appear in her box at the Opera; 
 the Opera would not interfere with his painting. Parties, 
 balls, he should avoid as much as possible, for a man 
 who has been dancing till four o'clock in the morning 
 cannot be out of bed and at his easel at ten. Lewis an- 
 swered that four or five hours' sleep were enough for 
 him, and he followed her from ballroom to ballroom. He 
 
124 
 
 had become interested in dancing and desired to distin- 
 guish himself in the Boston, and Lucy watched him whirl- 
 ing round the drawing-rooms of Le Quartier de l'Etoile; 
 every kind of American face leaned over his shoulder, 
 for dancing was the fashion in those days. Lucy did not 
 care for dancing for its own sake, but to see him com- 
 ing towards her with a ribbon to pin upon her dress, and 
 to leave her chair and advance towards him and to whirl 
 with him round the room, and be taken back to her chair 
 by him, was a great pleasure to her. " There has been 
 very little pleasure in his life till now," she said to her- 
 self and refrained from reproaching him, saying, " he 
 will return to his painting more eagerly than ever after 
 his holiday. The schoolmistress he must never see in 
 me," she said to herself, and whispered in his ear the 
 corner at which he would find the brougham waiting for 
 him. 
 
 They did not leave these balls together. To do so, 
 Lucy said, would make her a marked woman, and he 
 must be sure to shake off any friend that would accom- 
 pany him. No one must see him get into her brougham. 
 He was clever at avoiding detection, and believed himself 
 capable of outwitting most detectives. There was a good 
 deal of the cat in Lewis. One moment he was in the 
 street and a moment after he was in her brougham, her 
 skirts about him; a delightful moment, though both were 
 tired and sleep pressed their eyelids. A delightful mo- 
 ment in a well-appointed brougham, driving along the 
 Champs-Elysees in the dawn across the Place de la Con- 
 corde, over the bridge along the quays into the Rue du 
 Bac. He had a studio in the house in which he lodged, 
 and she told him she would call for him about twelve 
 and take him out to breakfast. " Good-bye, dearest." 
 The door opened, and as soon as he passed into the house, 
 the brougham returned along the Quai Voltaire, and 
 immediately afterwards she remembered Carpeau's sculp- 
 
125 
 
 ture and raised her tired eyes to look at it, and regretted 
 that it was not placed where it could be better seen. The 
 brougham passed along the Orangerij into the Place de la 
 Concorde, and she remembered that a hundred years ago 
 it was called the Place de Louis XV. The Champs- 
 Elysees were built afterwards, she thought, during the 
 Second Empire. But why was she so interested in every 
 bridge and every point of view? The London streets did 
 not interest her, but she never drove up the Champs- 
 Elysees in the early morning without wondering. There 
 was something great, something triumphant in the wide 
 avenue ascending to the arch on the hilltop nearly a 
 mile away, and all the way beautifully planted with 
 chestnut-trees and interspersed with swards, with cafes 
 and restaurants throughout, swings and merry-go-rounds 
 • — an enormous wonder in May when all the trees were 
 in flower under a morning sky. In a few minutes they 
 would be at the Rond Point, and a few minutes later 
 they would turn into the Rue Galilee. A few yards of 
 sharp ascent would take them into the Avenue Josephine. 
 She had heard the name, Avenue Josephine, was going 
 to be changed. A pity, she thought, to change a name, 
 and a name so evocative as Josephine. 
 
 As the brougham turned into the Rue Galilee a tall 
 thin man rose from his seat in the victoria that had fol- 
 lowed the brougham to the Rue du Bac and back again 
 to the Champs-Elysees. The little horse that drew it 
 could no longer keep pace with the brougham, and put- 
 ting some francs into the driver's hand, he sprang from 
 the step, and, catching up his long coat, he ran full tilt 
 up the pavement into the Avenue Josephine, and rushed 
 across it, reaching the house in which Lucy lodged a few 
 seconds after she had passed in. The concierge, already 
 awakened by Mrs. Bentham's ring, did not keep him 
 waiting; and as it was not uncommon for two lodgers 
 to enter the house at the same time, Mrs. Bentham as- 
 
126 
 
 cended the stairs wrapt in her own thoughts, and was 
 half-way up the second flight when she was startled by 
 hearing somebody call : " Lucy ! " 
 
 A great surprise this was to her, for there was no- 
 body in Paris, except Lewis, who used her first name in 
 addressing her. 
 
 " You've no right, Herbert, to follow me into my 
 house." 
 
 " Nor has my wife the right to leave a young man at 
 his lodging in the Rue du Bac after a ball." 
 
 " So you've been following me ? " 
 
 " Of course ; and the result of my spying is that a new 
 arrangement has become necessary. But we can dis- 
 cuss the details more comfortably in the drawing-room 
 than on the staircase." 
 
 Herbert begged of her not to raise her voice on the 
 staircase lest she should bring the concierge to her 
 assistance. " If you do, I shall have to say who I am. 
 Let me come into your drawing-room." 
 
 " How long do you propose to remain? " 
 
 " I hope and think we may be able to come to an 
 agreement in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour upon a 
 certain point." 
 
 " A matter of money? " 
 
 " Why put matters so plainly, so crudely ? " he an- 
 swered. "Do you mind my lighting a cigarette? A 
 cigarette gives one countenance — a sort of veil between 
 oneself and reality." 
 
 " A matter of money," she said to herself. " Well, I'd 
 better hear how much he wants." 
 
 " You've taken these apartments for a year ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Let us not waste time. How much? " 
 
 " My dear, that is not the way we should approach 
 the subject. I hoped that the money question would 
 never rise between us again." 
 
127 
 
 " How much ? " she answered. 
 
 " Aren't you going to sit down ? " 
 
 " You can sit down if you like." 
 
 " Well, Lucy, the question arises, as the newspapers 
 say, between us, whether I shall ask for a divorce or 
 whether you will divorce me. We can settle that matter 
 much better between ourselves than by the aid of your 
 solicitor or mine. You're tired, I can see that; but a 
 more propitious moment could hardly have been 
 chosen." 
 
 " You know," she said, " that I was at the Marquise 
 de Maure's ball? " 
 
 He answered that it would take too long to explain 
 how he had learnt that she had at last taken to what he 
 called " side-stepping." " A delightful expression which, 
 like many others," he said, " comes to us from America. 
 Well, now, which is it to be, Lucy — that you divorce me 
 or that I divorce you ? " 
 
 " I don't want a divorce." 
 
 " But I may want one." 
 
 " I suppose you have acquainted yourself with the law 
 of divorce, Herbert; and know quite well that if I can 
 prove any ' side-stepping ' against you, your petition will 
 fail?" 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I know that ; but you may not 
 be able to prove to the satisfaction of the court that I 
 have ever committed adultery, whereas your little excur- 
 sions to the Loire and back leave no doubt of miscon- 
 duct. If money affairs " 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " Yes, if money affairs can be settled satisfactorily 
 between us, I can give you cause to bring an action 
 against me, and then you will be free to marry the young 
 gentleman." 
 
 " But if I do not wish to marry? A woman who has 
 
128 
 
 been so unhappily married as I was feels little inclina- 
 tion to put her head into the noose again." 
 
 " Well, then," he said, " I shall have to bring an action 
 against you, and Mr. Seymour may not like to figure as 
 co-respondent, and you may not like to do him harm — 
 prejudice his career. Come, Lucy, it is much better to 
 avoid these public scandals." 
 
 " How much do you want? " she answered. 
 
 " Well, I was thinking that if you were to allow me 
 fifteen hundred a year — " And seeing that she would 
 consent, he yielded to the temptation to question her: 
 " Now, why don't you want to marry this young man? 
 It doesn't follow that because you were unhappy with 
 me you should be unhappy with him. And there is an- 
 other reason, Lucy." The question brought a little colour 
 to her cheek, tired though she was, and she waited for 
 him to speak again, afraid lest he read in her heart that 
 she did not wish to marry Lewis because marriage would 
 quench the sense of motherhood in her. She could not 
 look upon her husband as her son, but she could look 
 upon her lover as a sort of stepson, or, to put it differ- 
 ently, she could look on herself as Lewis's stepmother; 
 and as she sat gazing at her husband, she remembered 
 how much she liked to take Lewis in her arms and kiss 
 him as a mother kisses her son, chastely. At other times 
 feelings that she could not overcome overpowered her, 
 and she kissed him as he asked to be kissed — as a mis- 
 tress kisses and a wife doesn't, as she had never will- 
 ingly kissed Herbert. His first name was odious to her. 
 She did not think of him as Herbert, or as Mr. Ben- 
 tham, but as " him." 
 
 " Of what are you thinking, dear ? " 
 
 Lewis had asked her of what she was thinking as they 
 leaned over the balustrade above the fish-ponds of Fon- 
 tainebleau, and now " he " used the same words : " Of 
 
129 
 
 what are you thinking? " The question that had pleased 
 her when Lewis asked it now irritated her. 
 
 " Are not my thoughts my own ? " she said. " Come, 
 how much? I'm tired. Don't let us prolong an inter- 
 view that cannot be any less disagreeable to you than it 
 is to me, unless you wish to torture me. How much did 
 you say? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't mind your leading the life that 
 pleases you. I don't see that there is any harm, if ap- 
 pearances are kept up." 
 
 " Spare me your theories on the goodness and badness 
 of things. How much ? " 
 
 " Well," he said, " since you put it so plainly, an 
 allowance of fifteen hundred a year might console me 
 for a marriage that I shall be obliged to forego. A very 
 nice widow . . ." 
 
 " You have mentioned the sum before ! I agree. Fif- 
 teen hundred a year. But what proof shall I have that 
 you will not blackmail me and follow me into my house ? " 
 
 " Well, if I do, you will be in no worse a position than 
 you are to-day. You will be able to say : ' You have 
 broken your promise, Herbert. I shall not pay you an- 
 other penny ; consult your solicitor.' " 
 
 " What you say seems to be reasonable. I will tell my 
 solicitor that I intend to allow you fifteen hundred a 
 year." 
 
 " May I ask when the first quarter's allowance will be 
 paid?" 
 
 " If you will give me the name of your bank, I will 
 write to my solicitor to-morrow on the subject." 
 
 " That will be very kind of you. Well, Lucy, good- 
 morning. I hope that we shall not be forced to meet 
 again." 
 
 " Then, indeed, it will be ' good-morning.' " 
 
130 
 
 CHAP. XXII. 
 
 THE interview with her husband overnight appeared in 
 Mrs. Bentham's face and speech and manner at break- 
 fast, and Mrs. Thorpe and Lewis were afraid that she 
 had not slept well. She answered that she had slept 
 hardly at all. 
 
 " You seemed quite well when you left me at my 
 door," Lewis said. 
 
 " We have been keeping late hours lately, and it may 
 be that I'm beginning to feel the effects." 
 
 "You have, indeed"; and Mrs. Thorpe advised her 
 cousin to go to her room after breakfast and lie down, 
 but Lucy answered that she would not be able to sleep. 
 She would be better after she had been out for a walk. 
 But she would not go to Madame de Coetlogon's dinner, 
 nor to the Marquise d'Osmond's ball after dinner. 
 "Lewis, are you dining with us?" 
 
 He was sorry; he was dining with Madame de Coet- 
 logon. 
 
 " And she'll take you to the Marquise's ball ? " 
 
 " She offered to take me. But I shan't stay. I shall 
 be in bed before one and at work in the studio at ten. 
 To-morrow will be a long working day, and you won't 
 see me before tea time." 
 
 " You don't seem to care for anything, Lewis," Mrs. 
 Thorpe said, looking intently at the young man, " unless 
 you're doing it to excess "; and Lewis answered that he 
 was not sure that Mrs. Thorpe was not right, that excess 
 was what pleased him: and he instanced the days of 
 twelve hours that he used to spend on the scaffolding at 
 Claremont House. 
 
 " It wasn't easy to persuade you to come down from 
 that scaffolding for your meals," Mrs. Thorpe inter- 
 jected; "and when you had worn yourself out, you 
 
131 
 
 would suddenly abandon painting and spend whole days 
 down by the river; it was as difficult for you to lay aside 
 the fishing rod as it was the palette." 
 
 " Yes, yes/' he answered cheerfully, and Mrs. Ben- 
 tham, who had, meanwhile, been chewing the bitter end 
 of jealousy, said: 
 
 " You seem pleased at being accredited, Lewis, with 
 such febrile enthusiasms for work and idleness, but I'm 
 not sure that the painter you admire most, Fragonard, 
 didn't try to maintain a continuous inspiration, and if 
 you would emulate him " 
 
 " Emulate him ! " Lewis cried. There was sufficient 
 good sense in him to deprecate comparison between him- 
 self and Fragonard, and when reproved for his modesty 
 he reminded the two ladies that he was only six and 
 twenty, and Fragonard died an old man. But though 
 he could not accept the compliment that his mistress paid 
 to his talent, it pleased him inasmuch as it set him think- 
 ing that if he were to make Paris his home he might 
 capture some of that painter's sunny sensuality. " Those 
 sunny bedrooms and landscapes," he said to himself, and 
 continuing his aestheticism he affirmed that to depict beau- 
 tiful things with a view to making them seem more beauti- 
 ful than they really are was always the mission of the 
 artist. 
 
 His reverie came to a stop suddenly. " I believe she's 
 beginning to tire of Paris," he said to himself, and he 
 remembered that she no longer laughed at the carica- 
 tures of Offenbach and Herve. The great Hortense in 
 " La Belle Poule " seemed to her shallow, superficial, 
 perhaps even a little vulgar, and Lewis began to think 
 his mistress irreparably English in her tastes. Every 
 day she seemed to him to become more and more English, 
 till at last he had begun to feel that she would never 
 appreciate the Champs-Elysees. He had heard her say 
 that the name was in itself ridiculous, and that Les Cors 
 
132 
 
 de Chasse playing fanfares in a formal garden was quite 
 a Frenchman's idea of le sport. Auteuil — its balconies, 
 porches, vases, gardens, and tiny railway was to her, 
 like everything else in Paris, theatrical. " There is a 
 lack of homeliness," she said, " in Paris. It is charm- 
 ing for a week or a fortnight, but we English people 
 sigh for home after a fortnight. The French people 
 seem to live in cafes and to talk too much about adultery." 
 She perceived the imprudence of her words, but kept her 
 gravity, and Lewis did not dare to snigger. " Are you 
 not tired of France," she asked. 
 
 Lewis began to talk of Boucher and Fragonard, and 
 the flatness of the English vision in painting, and how 
 anxious he was to acquire the French. 
 
 " But," she said, " you go to the studio no longer." 
 " No," he answered ; " but I'm absorbing French in- 
 fluence. The present is a period of absorption — of think- 
 ing things out." And he asked her to come to the Louvre 
 with him. " But, Lewis, when is this period of absorp- 
 tion to come to an end? I quite understand that every- 
 body must have a holiday; but when do you propose to 
 end your holiday and return to England? You know 
 I'm anxious to see you in a studio painting. Wouldn't 
 it be better to work while you are in Paris, and to take 
 your holiday when you are in London? " She regretted 
 her words soon after having spoken, for they implied 
 that she was not satisfied with the life that Lewis was 
 leading, which, in truth, she was not. For some time 
 past she had been saying that a man who doesn't get to 
 bed before four in the morning cannot paint the next 
 day — certainly not before twelve o'clock, and Lewis 
 usually arrived about one o'clock at the Avenue Josephine. 
 In the afternoon he paid visits, and in the evening he 
 had a dinner engagement, and there was always a ball 
 after dinner. This life of pleasure she had begun to 
 feel was incompatible with art. She had always under- 
 
133 
 
 stood that an artist sacrificed everything to his art. She 
 didn't wish Lewis to sacrifice her, for without her he 
 would decline. She was his mainstay; without her he 
 would not have learnt how to paint. All Lewis knew 
 of art he got from her; and she must not separate her- 
 self from him, but have patience with him, despite the 
 fact that she saw him led away by women almost every 
 night. But they were taking him away from her. Her 
 influence was fading — she knew it — yet she lacked resolu- 
 tion to say : " Lewis, we are returning to London ; we'd 
 like you to return with us, but if you think it would be 
 better to Temain some while longer in Paris, we shall 
 look forward to seeing you when you return." A com- 
 munication of this sort she felt to be necessary, and she 
 kept turning the words over in her mind for a long while, 
 till at last they could be delayed no longer, and she men- 
 tioned that she had written to Claremont House, giving 
 notice of her return. 
 
 " When," he asked, " do you return ? Not yet, surely ; 
 not before the ' Grand Prix ' ? " 
 
 " But why should I remain for the ' Grand Prix ' ? " 
 
 " We might go to the fashionable Dieppe and to Trou- 
 ville afterwards. We might spend a season in Aix-les- 
 Bains in September, and we might from there go on to 
 Spain." 
 
 " But my home is in England ; and really, Lewis, if 
 you wish to hear the truth, I will tell you. Your career 
 is in England, and not here. You cannot become a 
 Frenchman because you were born an Englishman, and 
 nobody is a success out of his own country, or happy." 
 
 Lewis felt that she had spoken the truth, and it came 
 to be often discussed between them that we can only 
 really live where we are born. Our minds never wander 
 far from our nativity, though our bodies may be else- 
 where, and it is well not to separate the mind from the 
 body. What is true of plants and flowers and trees is 
 
134 
 
 also true of animals and of men. True, quite true; he 
 must return to England because he was English; the two 
 years and some months he had spent in Paris would re- 
 main a little island in his life. He would return to Eng- 
 land with Lucy because he loved her; he could not be 
 separated from her. Lucy was his line of luck. " You 
 will help me to find a studio/' he said. 
 
 She welcomed the word " studio," and spoke to him 
 of the presidency of the Royal Academy as they leaned 
 over the bulwarks of the vessel, without, however, being 
 able to cheer him. 
 
 As the shores receded he felt he was bidding good-bye 
 to La Belle France for ever. Something that had come 
 into his life was going out of it for ever, and there were 
 tears in his eyes as he wrapped a woollen shawl round 
 his mistress's shoulders. 
 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 
 HOWEVER we may have enjoyed our sojourn in a for- 
 eign country, it is always agreeable to return home, and 
 the English cliffs presented a pleasant appearance even 
 to Lewis, full as he was at that moment of French senti- 
 ment, and in spite of himself the English accent sounded 
 pleasant on his ears as it came from the lips of t"he rail- 
 way porters. 
 
 He did not like to fall asleep in Lucy's presence, but 
 sleep overcame him, and it overcame her soon afterwards, 
 and they both slept till the ticket collector came to ask 
 for their tickets. Even at that moment of low vitality 
 it was pleasant to see the solemn Thames so different 
 from the gay little Seine, and to mark the buildings and 
 the sky that was just beginning to brighten. 
 
 " It may be a fine day after all," Lewis ventured. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe, whom they had forgotten, woke up and 
 
135 
 
 suggested they should all go to the same hotel together 
 and sleep away their fatigue; and this plan might have 
 been followed if it had not been discovered that they 
 could catch a fast train and save themselves the trouble 
 of unpacking and repacking their trunks, and undressing 
 and dressing again. The old phrase about making two 
 bites at a cherry came into their minds, and an hour later 
 they were rolling out of Victoria, thinking how pleasant 
 it would be to get to bed and sleep away the fatigue 
 of the journey. 
 
 " Don't call after him," Lucy said, as she and her 
 cousin ascended the stairs ; " he has gone to look at his 
 decorations " ; and while she dressed for luncheon she 
 began to feel anxious about him. " If his decorations 
 failed to please," she said to herself, " he hasn't closed 
 his eyes all the morning, but lain awake thinking how 
 he might improve them. It may be that he will ask per- 
 mission to begin them all over again. His face will tell 
 me " ; and when they met in the drawing-room, his face, 
 which she could now read, told her that he approved of 
 his work, and on questioning him she learnt that he was 
 more sure of his drawing; that he knew more; and his 
 eagerness to return to London and to work convinced 
 Lucy that she had done well to take him away from 
 Paris and its associations. 
 
 Her presence at Claremont House was needed; her 
 gardens ! But Lewis left her no peace, and at the end 
 of the week they were going to London together to look 
 for a studio. After all his painting was more important 
 to her than bulbs. She would be a great deal in his 
 studio during the winter; the studio, therefore, was 
 almost as important to her as to him. She would like it 
 to be within convenient distance of Carlton House Ter- 
 race. She fell to thinking of Bloomsbury ; the very name 
 exhaled a fragrance of dead romance, and Lewis said 
 that he thought he could see himself living in one of the 
 
136 
 
 old houses in Bloomsbury Square. So to Bloomsbury 
 they went, and spent a long day searching without being 
 able to find anything that they could approve of cor- 
 dially; but if the house agent's books had proved singu- 
 larly poor in artistic residences, they had, nevertheless, 
 spent a pleasant day, and sitting on either side of the 
 fireplace in Carlton House Terrace they talked of studios 
 and gardens, t hinki ng that as they had found driving to 
 and fro, calling at different houses, running upstairs, dis- 
 cussing the height of ceilings, north lights and wall 
 papers, a pastime, they must not yield to the temptation 
 of saying " This will not do." They had seen nothing in 
 Bloomsbury, but in Chelsea they might find what they 
 were seeking; and Chelsea was, after all, not further 
 from Carlton House Terrace than Bloomsbury. 
 
 " We shall have to go to Chelsea," Lucy said, " but 
 there is one thing I must ask you: to have patience. It 
 is impossible for you to paint the pictures we would all 
 like to see you painting, in ugly surroundings. We have 
 gotten a number of addresses and must go to every one. 
 They won't all suit us, but we may happen upon some- 
 thing that will, but we must be patient." 
 
 And the next day the carriage stopped in front of a 
 handsome house with portico overlooking the river, an 
 inspiring house it seemed to them both, and the inside 
 seemed in keeping with the outside. 
 
 " We seem to have hit upon the very house we want," 
 Lewis said. Lucy was not so sure: it seemed a little 
 pompous, but it might do. 
 
 At that moment a voice from the next room cried out 
 that he was not to be disturbed, and the caretaker told 
 them that the gentleman had come in last night who 
 had taken the house. 
 
 " But why did you let us come in ? " 
 
 " I thought that you were friends of the gentleman's," 
 
137 
 
 the caretaker replied; and Lucy and Lewis returned 
 dejected to the brougham. 
 
 The next address was in a slum. 
 
 " We shall have you laid up with fever," Lucy said. 
 
 " And the noise ! " Lewis answered. " Dogs and chil- 
 dren howling together. I wonder why the agent sent us 
 here? I told him I was a painter." 
 
 " When we go back to the office you'd better tell him 
 the kind of pictures you intend to paint/' Lucy replied, 
 laughing; " and to make matters plain to him, it might 
 be as well to bring some photographs of Boucher and 
 Fragonard. A photograph of the ' Rape of the Chemise ' 
 could not fail to put him in mind of some picturesque 
 spot." 
 
 Lewis laughed, and after he had complimented Lucy 
 on what he called her pretty wit, they proceeded from 
 failure to failure up staircases and round backyards till 
 Chelsea was fairly ransacked. 
 
 " We haven't been down this turning," Lewis said at 
 the end of a week's searching. 
 
 Lucy said she didn't remember it, and they passed 
 out of a rather squalid thoroughfare into a lane that led 
 them towards what seemed to be the outskirts of a little 
 English town, and after passing some untidy studios they 
 stopped to admire a beautiful eighteenth-century house, 
 with a garden in front, at the side, and behind it. 
 
 "Who couldn't paint in that beautiful house? " And 
 Lewis pointed to another Georgian house — pillared porch 
 and balcony in all the best style; but what caused their 
 hearts to stand still was a board, " Residence to Let." 
 
 " But how much will it cost to live there ? " 
 
 " Whatever it costs you must live there," Lucy an- 
 swered; and they walked through a little gate to the 
 house. 
 
 On the first floor was a dining-room and a back room 
 in which Lewis said he would keep frames and pictures, 
 
138 
 
 and after much whispered admiration they ascended a 
 staircase with thin halusters. 
 
 " How perfect was the taste of our ancestors ! " Lewis 
 remarked; and from the landing they walked into a long 
 room the full length of the house, with four windows. 
 " If it be in me to paint beautiful pictures, it will be 
 here that I shall paint them," Lewis murmured. " Among 
 apple-green walls and lemon-yellow window-frames." 
 
 " Oh, how clever of you, Lewis, to think of it so 
 quickly ! " 
 
 It would be necessary to make some inquiries about 
 bathrooms and bedrooms, but before making any it 
 seemed to both that it would be better to hurry to the 
 agent's and put in their claim for the house, " Unless," 
 Lucy interposed, " all the arrangements be unsanitary.'' 
 
 The house was to let. The agent did not think the 
 sanitation defective, and they returned to the Vale to 
 make further investigations, and then returned to the 
 agent to pay something in advance, so afraid were they 
 that another purchaser might rob them of their discovery 
 by offering a bigger rent. 
 
 Without this house the conviction tugged at their 
 heart-strings that their dreams would come to nought. 
 The house was essential. . . . They knew it. " The 
 house — the house," they repeated all that evening, and 
 next day an order was given for the preparation of a 
 lease. It came up in due time for Lewis's signature, and 
 as soon as it was signed, breath came more freely. For 
 twenty-one years the Georgian house in the Vale was 
 Lewis's. " Your house as much as mine, Lucy." 
 
 Lucy protested, and they fell to talking about the 
 furniture. " What curtains do you think will harmonise 
 best with a pale apple green? " Lucy asked; and the 
 colour that came first into their minds was, of course, 
 red. " But what red ? Silk damask, moire, or rep ? " 
 
 " The century is just emerging from rep," Lewis 
 
139 
 
 answered. " Rep is too early Victorian." And they 
 walked out on to the balcony, their thoughts passing from 
 curtains into admiration of the vision of country impris- 
 oned by some miracle in London's midst. Lucy spoke 
 of flowers, but Lewis thought the tall tangled grasses 
 would be in keeping with the fig-trees. 
 
 " The lag end of an English village it seems to me to 
 be," he said, as he stepped aside to let her pass into the 
 long low-ceilinged room. 
 
 " The curtains must be rose damask," she murmured. 
 " And now let me see what furniture is wanted." 
 
 " In a house like this there can be but eighteenth- 
 century furniture." 
 
 And next day they went forth in the blue silk-lined 
 brougham, filled with looking-glasses, scent-bottles, note- 
 paper, pens, and many other delightful and unnecessary 
 knick-knacks, to buy furniture. A Sheraton sofa was 
 indispensable, and a set of Sheraton chairs to match. 
 Lewis did not wish his house to look like a museum, and 
 was very glad when a friend of Lucy's, a rich man who 
 had just bought a Jacobean house, thinking that some 
 beautiful glass chandeliers would be out of keeping with 
 his house, gave them to Lewis. " One day you may 
 paint me a picture," he said to Lewis. 
 
 " I will, indeed," Lewis answered ; and as soon as the 
 man had gone, he said: " He is one of those men who, 
 having no notion of what is beautiful, think they can 
 attain the beautiful by having everything in keeping. 
 Poor fools ! " he muttered ; and they drove to another 
 dealer, and spent a long time considering French clocks, 
 a favourite whim of Lewis's. " No house possesses 
 anything like a sufficient number of Louis XV. clocks. 
 Every clock was beautiful," he said, " till clocks began to 
 strike the nineteenth century " ; and a light came into 
 Lucy's face, for now everything her lover said struck her 
 as wonderful. The brougham stopped. 
 
140 
 
 " We must now give our attention to carpets." 
 
 " There are no carpets but Aubusson." 
 
 Aubussons were scorned in the seventies, and Lewis 
 was able to acquire a great circle of flowers for a few 
 pounds. 
 
 " A marvellous design," he said, and their thoughts 
 and their eyes were caught at that moment by some 
 Chelsea figures. Lucy picked up a pair of Battersea 
 candlesticks, and asked him if they were not pretty, but 
 he said he didn't care for Battersea unless they were 
 green at the base. Satinwood tables played a large part 
 in their peregrinations, and they spent a long while 
 admiring writing-tables with little bookcases at the back 
 to hold volumes no larger than one's hand. Too much 
 money was asked for these pieces, and Lucy resolved to 
 say nothing to Lewis, but to buy them for him when his 
 back was turned. His pleasure would be the greater. 
 
 The bedrooms were a source of great anxiety to both 
 of them. Lewis was in favour of a four-poster, a 
 Victorian, for he did not mind mixing the styles, so long 
 as the posts were beautifully carved; and they saw some 
 beautiful beds, French and English. The Italian bed and 
 the Dutch interested neither: and they thought of them- 
 selves in a French bed. 
 
 " After all, love such as ours is worthy of a canopy 
 and Cupids." 
 
 " Lewis, I would not have you speak like that of our 
 love, though I know you are only jesting. Our love does 
 not depend upon the style of bed we live in. I hoped 
 that your love would not be different, though we had no 
 bed but a straw pallet." 
 
 " My dear Lucy, bed life is " He stopped. 
 
 Her earnestness obscured the sky of their happiness, 
 and they walked pensively through the show-rooms, the 
 showman's patter sounding far away till the sight of a 
 French bureau in dark mahogany, with rich ormolu, 
 
141 
 
 awoke them from their reveries; and in consideration of 
 this beautiful object we will leave them and take up 
 the thread of the story a few weeks later, when the 
 Georgian house in the Vale was furnished from basement 
 to garret, and the time had come for Lewis to paint a 
 picture. 
 
 He had had no heart to think of painting since his 
 return, and for many months before, painting had occupied 
 his thoughts but seldom, and he was now without an 
 idea in his head and unable to decide if he should paint 
 Judith and Holofernes or a bunch of flowers. He could 
 paint neither, for he was without an idea, and an artist 
 without ideas is an unhappy man: ideas are his portion, 
 inasmuch that he can accept all other forms of poverty 
 without grumbling. If there be no wine he can drink 
 beer; if there be no chicken he can eat mutton; if there 
 be no mutton he can eat bread and cheese; and bread 
 and cheese with an idea is preferable to the daintiest 
 French dishes without one if the man be an artist. And 
 Lewis was an artist in a sense. He did not remember 
 that he had ever been before without an idea: good ideas 
 or bad ideas, he did not know which, but he had had ideas 
 even in the Waterloo Road; but in the Vale he was 
 without an idea sufficient to carry him through a still 
 life. " Was he an artist ? " He put the question as he 
 stood on the balcony overlooking the tangled grasses, 
 and then returning to the low-ceilinged room, he covered 
 sheets of paper with all kinds of scrawls, every moment 
 thinking that an idea would emerge. He was lured for a 
 moment, and then another design was begun, and at the 
 end of a short October day, after passing through a 
 shadowy garden, Lucy found Lewis seated before the fire 
 more depressed and sad than she had ever known him. 
 She took up one of the sheets of paper and asked him 
 to explain the different compositions, and he said that 
 very likely some were not worse than many of the 
 
142 
 
 compositions that one saw every year on the walls of 
 the Academy, but there was no idea in him, " And one 
 cannot paint without an idea," he said. " The months 
 that I spent in those Parisian studios may have scraped 
 all my ideas out of me." 
 
 Lucy could see he was full of despair, and she kept 
 her eyes withdrawn from his, lest she might catch sight 
 of tears. " He will feel ashamed of himself," she said 
 to herself, and determined to save him from self- 
 humiliation, she remarked that the subject, whether of a 
 picture or of a book, perhaps even of music, came from 
 without. A word heard in conversation, something read 
 in the newspapers, something seen, accident dictated it. 
 "You mustn't be impatient; you must wait for the 
 inspired moment. The waiting is tedious, but it may he 
 shortened by reading. Now, have you thought, Lewis, of 
 the books you have read? There must be something in 
 one of them that prompts a picture." 
 
 He did not reply, and to win him out of his mood of 
 despondency she began to talk to him of the books 
 they had read together in Paris. They had read the 
 Decameron, but the tales did not seem to them nearly as 
 well told as they had been led to believe they were. The 
 most that could be said in Boccaccio's favour was that a 
 clumsy fellow, without literary intuition or skill, took 
 down everything that came to his ears, which was his 
 luck and ours, for if he had tried to give shape to the 
 folk-tales he had collected he would have spoilt them. 
 
 " A good secretary," Lewis said, stretching himself 
 out in his arm-chair ; and in his new and more comfortable 
 position be began to contend that literature had not yet 
 begun to emerge from the darkness of the Middle Ages. 
 
 Lucy objected. 
 
 " Dante— we did not read him." 
 
 " He belongs to the Middle Ages ; and speaking out 
 of a very shadowy knowledge of the subject, I would 
 
143 
 
 like to say that the Renaissance seems to me to have 
 produced every art in perfection but literature.'' 
 
 Lucy reflected a moment, and a little surprised at 
 Lewis's perception of a subject which he only knew from 
 her, reminded him that Latin literature was, with the 
 possible exception of Dante, superior to Italian. " The 
 late Latin and Greek writers that we read in the Tudor 
 translations struck us as being more independent than 
 any modern literature " ; and she spoke of the fragment 
 of Petronius that has come down to us as illustrating the 
 freedom of the ancient writer from social prejudices, and 
 they were agreed that Gil Bias was but a pale copy of it. 
 It may be that Le Sage never read the Latin work, but 
 the tradition of it survived in the subconsciousness of the 
 modern world; and they rejoiced in their recollections of 
 the great feast, a thing in itself, an essential — like a great 
 mountain, an elephant, it cannot be forgotten. And each 
 was moved to speak of the boy whom the thieves 
 quarrelled over, and of the boy, too, whose complacency 
 was won by a present of gamecocks — neither remembered 
 the second present; the third they were sure was a 
 promise of a pony. But it was not because of the 
 unfulfilment of the promise that the boy threatened to tell 
 his father, but for quite a different reason — proving the 
 Roman writer was possessed of a very superior sense of 
 humour. Lewis reminded Lucy of the Golden Ass, a 
 literary work that compares with the sculpture done in 
 that period, and favourably. The story in itself is so 
 alive that they took pleasure in speaking of the parlour- 
 maid whose tongue the young man sipped as if it 
 were nectar, between whiles entertained with stories of 
 wizardry, " for their amorous encounters," Lewis said, 
 " took place in her mistress's bedroom, among many 
 phials containing mysterious medicines." One of the 
 phials contained a medicine that could change a young 
 man into an ass, and keep him in that animal's shape 
 
144 
 
 till he fortuned upon roses and ate them. It was with 
 this medicine that the parlour-maid transformed her lover 
 at his request; but before she could give the animal, 
 that instantly appeared, rose-leaves to eat, robbers broke 
 in, and the transformed was an ass henceforth, and put 
 to the use that asses are put to. An excellent relation 
 the story is of the assman's adventures, and his desire to 
 return to his own shape. An excellent relation, happily 
 interrupted by a flash of immortal genius— the beauti- 
 f ullest story ever written — the celebrated story of 
 Orpheus and Eurydice, superior to anything that Boccac- 
 cio discovered — as the Parthenon marbles are superior 
 to Tanagra figures — much more beautiful, for the 
 Tanagra figures are slight, but nearly always beautiful, 
 whereas Boccaccio is very often shapeless. And the 
 twain were agreed that, even if the divine story was left 
 out of consideration, the Golden Ass was much superior 
 as conscious art to anything written in Italian. 
 
 " In saying that, we are saying nothing," Lewis inter- 
 jected, " that we have not said before. We are agreed 
 that the Decameron is mere folk, whereas the art of 
 antiquity was always conscious, and never more so than 
 in the very beautiful story of Daphnis and Chloe — the 
 last effort, so the critics tell, of Greek genius. Some 
 attribute the story to the second, some to the ninth, 
 century. It may be that I shall find my subject in that 
 story." And they went over the story together, reminding 
 each other of component parts. Like the Golden Ass, 
 it rose out of an incident, almost as conventional as the 
 transformation of a man into an ass. A goatherd notices 
 that a certain she-goat escapes from the flock again and 
 again into a copse. He follows the goat, and finds her 
 giving suck to a male child. In another part of the 
 island a shepherd notices that a ewe escapes from the 
 flock into a dingle. He follows the ewe, and finds her 
 giving suck to a female child. These children are brought 
 
145 
 
 home by their respective finders, and as they grow into 
 girl- and boyhood they lead their flocks through the hills. 
 There is a fountain in the island, and the nymphs carven 
 upon the rocks stir their childish imaginations, setting 
 them wondering; and Daphnis's back, when he bathes in 
 the fountain, seems to Chloe the most beautiful thing in 
 all the world, and Chloe's beauty does not seem less to 
 Daphnis. 
 
 " It is extraordinary how little one remembers of what 
 one reads," Lewis said; "and yet one remembers 
 intensely. I have an intense memory of an old shepherd 
 whom Daphnis and Chloe consulted concerning love. He 
 said many profound and witty things, I am certain, 
 though I cannot recall one; and I am also sure that his 
 counsels were not sufficient, Daphnis and Chloe being 
 too young at that time to rightly understand him, though 
 they longed to understand; and for a more explicit 
 telling of love's procedure, you remember, Lucy, the 
 interest with which they watched the mating of the ram 
 with the ewe, of the he-goat with the she-goat. But so 
 innocent are they in their teens, that we have only in 
 this period an account of their kisses under the rocks. 
 And perhaps the incident that releases them from their 
 innocence is one that everybody knows: painters, men 
 of letters, women of the world, all, for some reason or 
 another — all have read or have been told how in some 
 further embarrassment of Daphnis and Chloe, a married 
 woman — the wife probably of one of the shepherds — 
 came to ask for Daphnis's help. An eagle had carried 
 off one of her lambs, and would he follow her? which he 
 did, she talking the whole time to him of the lamb which 
 they would rescue; but as soon as they reach a secluded 
 dell she tells him that she had overheard all his talk 
 with Chloe and witnessed their embraces. The words 
 are so well chosen that one regrets that the ancient 
 writers did not introduce more dialogue into their narra- 
 
146 
 
 tives. Do you remember? " And Lucy said she thought 
 that the married woman told Daphnis that she was once 
 as innocent as he and Chloe, but had learnt what love was 
 from a married man, and would teach him in her turn. 
 
 " And then," Lewis cried, " comes one of the most 
 beautiful touches in the story. Daphnis is about to run 
 away at once to Chloe, fearing he might forget his 
 lesson, but he is stopped by the married woman with 
 these words : ' Remember, Daphnis, always, that it was 
 not Chloe that taught you love, but I.' After which 
 words she permits him to return to Chloe. And now 
 again comes one of the most beautiful touches, one which 
 shows we have learnt nothing during the last eighteen 
 hundred years. I am assuming, you see, that the story 
 was written in the second century. Daphnis returns to 
 Chloe, but he doesn't practise upon her the art that he has 
 learnt from the married woman, for they are engaged to 
 be married, and he thinks it will be as well to wait till 
 then for the consummation of their loves. The next 
 incident is the rape of Chloe by pirates, and nothing in 
 the story is more delightful than the relation of Daphnis's 
 grief; his raving along the coasts and through the woods, 
 his prayers that Pan and the other gods may intervene to 
 rescue Chloe. It is all so untrue and yet so true. And 
 truth in untruth is the essence of art, an essence which 
 we shall never reach again, but which Greece attained in 
 this last effort of her genius. By the intervention of the 
 gods the pirates are shipwrecked." 
 
 " Isn't there a meeting of Daphnis and Chloe on the 
 shore ? " Lucy asked. " Didn't Daphnis lead Chloe up 
 the hills into the woods from the sea ? " 
 
 " Of course he did," Lewis answered — -" he couldn't 
 have done else, yet one barely remembers." And then 
 they spoke of the incident that sets the seal of genius 
 upon the story — the love of the steward who comes with 
 
147 
 
 his master, who owns the island, to see if his flocks have 
 prospered. 
 
 " It was a disappointment to me to hear that Daphnis 
 and Chloe are slaves," Lucy said ; " and the turn the 
 story takes is certainly unexpected; it is not Chloe that 
 the steward seeks, but Daphnis. A modern writer would 
 have sought to interest the reader by a story of ordinary 
 revelry. With this incident the author includes all human 
 love within the circuit of history." Lewis agreed that 
 there is something in ancient art that escapes the modern 
 sense, and he asked Lucy if anything in literature was 
 more remarkable than Daphnis's appeal to the master 
 of the island to save him from the steward. " Do you 
 remember, Lucy, the last line of the story, exquisite in 
 its humanity, is the remark that on their wedding night 
 the lovers understood that all they had done in the woods 
 was but child's play. For centuries this story has been 
 the admiration of scholars." 
 
 " You know, Lewis, that the most beautiful translation 
 of this story was done by a Frenchman — Bishop Amyot." 
 And they began to talk of the extraordinary incident that 
 befell the story. Three pages were missing from all the 
 copies that came down to us, till one day in the beginning 
 of this century a Frenchman discovered a complete copy 
 in Florence. He made a transcript of the pages and then 
 upset his ink-bottle over them, destroying them com- 
 pletely. Lewis, who heard the story for the first time, 
 held that Paul Louis Courier destroyed the pages in order 
 that his name might be preserved; but Lucy inclined to 
 the belief that he wrote the missing pages himself, 
 translated them, and died without yielding up his secret, 
 knowing that it would breathe in the minds of posterity 
 an irresistible curiosity that time would never blot out. 
 
 " It cannot be that he knew Greek well enough to 
 deceive scholars. Could any Englishman write three 
 
148 
 
 pages into Mademoiselle de Maupin that the least critical 
 would accept as Gautier's? " 
 
 Lucy answered that it did not seem possible. She 
 suggested Swinburne when he was very young. Lewis 
 shook his head, and a long silence fell between them. 
 
 " I'm beginning to see them : Daphnis bathing in the 
 fountain, and Chloe admiring his back. Beginning to 
 see them as a picture." 
 
 And as he sat thinking of the picture, Lucy told him 
 of Goethe's admiration for the Greek story. He listened, 
 hearing her as one hears when one lies between sleeping 
 and waking; and then rising from his chair, he walked 
 out on to the balcony. 
 
 " The Vale is an ideal spot in which to illustrate 
 Daphnis and Chloe. But before beginning a series of 
 drawings I must concentrate on Daphnis and Chloe in 
 the cave. It will be difficult to get a model. Chloe was 
 about thirteen or fourteen when she admired Daphnis's 
 back. No, she wasn't so old as that; they were children 
 of seven or eight — too young for drawing. In my pic- 
 ture they must be nine or ten, eleven or twelve." 
 
 He did not ask Lucy's opinion, but passed by her into 
 the low-ceilinged room, wainscoted with apple-green 
 panels, and upon a satinwood table fell to sketching. 
 " The first draft of my composition," he said, showing 
 her a rough outline. 
 
 " It is charming," she replied, leaning over him. " The 
 only thing I fear is a lack of perseverance." 
 
 " No one is more patient than I am, but till we spoke 
 of Daphnis and Chloe I hadn't an idea in my head. To- 
 morrow I must make some drawings, for you know, dear- 
 est, whether a composition be good or bad depends upon 
 the drawing one gets into it. I will work at the com- 
 position this evening after dinner " ; and he was glad to 
 hear her say that she must return home. Her visit had 
 been a pleasant one, and it was pleasant, too, to lead her 
 
149 
 
 out of the Vale into the King's Road, and to put her into 
 a carriage, and to say : " Well, I hope to be able to show 
 you the composition in a day or two." 
 
 A moment after she was gone, and he returned to the 
 house absorbed in his picture. 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 THE sketch seemed to represent the text — a cave in 
 which there was a fountain and some statues of nymphs. 
 But he had already begun to ask himself if the nymphs 
 engraved upon the rock were bas-reliefs or statues. 
 " Bas-reliefs," he said. Statues mean pedestals, and dis- 
 missing pedestals from his mind, he considered the size 
 of the fountain. It must be large enough to bathe in, 
 which presented a difficulty; and to reconcile himself to 
 a small fountain, he remembered that the boats in 
 Raphael's Miraculous Draught of Fishes were not large 
 enough to contain a single figure, and Raphael had placed 
 several in the same boat. The boats were symbolical, 
 and his fountain, too, would be symbolical of a pool in 
 which two figures might swim about. He need not intro- 
 duce the whole of the pool; a corner would suffice — a 
 flash of water amid the rocks. A more serious difficulty 
 presented itself when he began his studies from the life. 
 The model could not take the pose he had imagined, and 
 when he got her brother to pose with her, he failed to 
 place them in attitudes that even recalled his composi- 
 tion. She was a well-proportioned girl, and fell into 
 very pretty poses naturally, from which it would be easy 
 to pick and choose, but it required a very special talent 
 to show the girl how to fit herself into a pose already 
 designed — the pose in the composition. 
 
 A man he had known in Paris was very clever in choos- 
 ing a model who could fit herself into a pose that the 
 
150 
 
 artist had created out of his imagination. With a cushion 
 here and a book there, he succeeded in getting the pose. 
 And Lewis wondered how it was he could not manage it. 
 He tried another model, but could not get her to take the 
 pose that the first model had given him. A very little 
 difference in the proportion of the limbs of the body was 
 enough to change everything. How was it to be man- 
 aged? Michael Angelo knew how Nature was made, and 
 could out of his knowledge create Nature, and Boucher, 
 on a much lower scale, had learned Nature so well that 
 he could dispense with a model, so it was said. He, too, 
 could dispense with a model. An occasional look at an 
 engraving here and there was sufficient to enable him 
 to decorate a ballroom with nymphs and Cupids; but 
 the present task was a different one, and if he could not 
 get the models into the poses that he designed, he would 
 have to draw Kitty and her brother in the attitude that 
 they fell into naturally. They were both well-propor- 
 tioned, and the group would appear of itself just as a 
 beautiful cloud shape appears, if you wait for it long 
 enough. 
 
 " I must read them the passage." And opening the 
 book, he applied all his mind to the comprehension of the 
 passage that he wished to illustrate: " Hee then fared to 
 the founte in thoughte to washe his long blacke hair and 
 his bodie all sun embrouned, yet might men deem his 
 hue caused of the shadowing Trefoures of his haire. Fair 
 he seemed to Chloe in his bathe, wherein she seeing him 
 for the first demed him therefrom to haue come by his 
 fairness. And whenas she laued his backe and shoulders 
 eke his fleshe yeeled tender to hir touche: therewith him 
 all unwittynge shee felt hire owne skinne ofte, in mynde 
 to proue whether of the two was softer. Phebus now 
 declining, they draue theyr flockes togithers to f oldwarde, 
 Chloes onlie wishing beeing to viewe Daphnis bath 
 again." 
 
151 
 
 " All that I have to illustrate is in that passage," he 
 said to himself, and, the book closed, he sat with his eyes 
 fixed, thinking how he might paint two figures, if by 
 chance his models gave him a group; if not the group 
 that he saw in his imagination, a group that corresponded 
 to it — an equivalent group. " How was it lighted ? " he 
 asked himself, and how in a room with four windows 
 would he get the atmosphere, the pale twilight of the 
 cave? The cave might be open overhead, and the light 
 might fall through implicated leaves; a Shelley-like cave 
 it might be, one of the caves in the Prometheus. But 
 these caves recalled pictures of Mantegna and Botticelli, 
 fresco-coloured drawings rather than pictures. Chiar- 
 oscuro was unknown to them. Beautiful pictures had been 
 painted in that manner, but the manner was archaic. 
 " All modern art is an appreciation of values, different 
 degrees of illumination, and were I," he said, " to con- 
 ceive the cave lighted from above, a ray of light falling 
 through a cleft in the rocks, the problem would be for 
 Rembrandt. Now, which is my picture to be? A fresco 
 according to Mantegna, a Botticelli, or a mystery of light 
 and shade according to Rembrandt? " His heart mis- 
 gave him, and he asked himself if it were possible that, 
 after all, he was not a painter. " If not a painter, what 
 then?" 
 
 A knock came at the door — it was Kitty; and all day 
 he drew her pretty figure in different poses, and the 
 drawings seemed to him not without merit, but he was 
 puzzled as to what use he was going to put them to. 
 The next day she brought her brother with her, and he 
 sketched some pretty groups, but they bore no resem- 
 blance to his composition, nor did they seem to him to be 
 in keeping with the text that he had proposed to illustrate. 
 
 His models left him, but they were to come again, and 
 next day he made further drawings, and the day after, 
 drawings of legs, drawings of hands, drawings of heads, 
 
152 
 
 of backs, of shoulders. There was nothing he did not 
 draw, but his drawings were not of any use to him. Now 
 it was the sister that inspired the hope, now it was the 
 brother. For half an hour his soul was on fire, and then 
 the fire died down, and at the end of the day his heart 
 was cold ashes again. 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 
 A MONTH went by, and no progress was made. He 
 had tried three or four more models, but the drawings 
 he did were of no more use to him than those he did 
 from Kitty and her brother. He dreamed of another 
 studio and relinquished his dreams; but one day Kitty, 
 seeing him overcome with despair, deep in silence, put 
 out her naked foot and pushed him gently. A painter in 
 his discouragement is an easy victim to the model, and 
 he took her on his knee and kissed her, and thanked her 
 for her sympathy, for he was very unhappy. But his 
 eyes, happening to go round the room at that moment, 
 he remembered that everything in it, and the house itself, 
 had been given to him by Lucy ; and his debt was so great 
 that he felt that he must not deceive her. If she were 
 to come into the room and find him kissing his model, 
 it would cut her to the heart. So he put Kitty away, 
 allowing as he did so his hand to linger, toying with a 
 plait of hair for a moment, and then telling her that he 
 was not free, but should he ever find himself free he 
 would be glad if they could return to this moment. Her 
 eyes were very winning, and when she had gone he 
 remembered them, and fell to thinking that all this 
 debt he had incurred to Lucy must be repaid. But how 
 was it to be repaid? His picture had gone wrong, and 
 could not be put right, he was striving for something he 
 would never reach. " Poor little Kitty ! It was a feeling 
 
153 
 
 of kindness for one whom she could see was suffering 
 that had induced her to put out her foot," he said as he 
 prepared the tea for Lucy, whom he expected, while 
 hoping to get a telegram from her, saying that she was 
 prevented from coming to see him. 
 
 He was expecting Lucy. Even loneliness was better 
 than her company this afternoon. She would be certain 
 to ask him to show her the picture, to bring out all his 
 drawings, every one of which was a failure from his 
 point of view; and feeling that the interview would be 
 unbearable, he began to think it might be better to send 
 her a telegram, saying that he had to go out. But 
 whither should he go? It seemed to him that he was 
 the unhappiest man in the world, and while trying to 
 measure his unhappiness, he remembered that if he did 
 not send a telegram she would be knocking at his door 
 in another hour, asking him how he was getting on with 
 his picture, and if he confessed failure he'd have to listen 
 to vain consolations : and if he showed her the picture he 
 felt that all hope would be gone. He'd never touch it 
 again. . . . He fell into a reverie and awoke unhappier 
 than before. Another hour had joined the past, and he 
 strove to rise out of his chair. But if he sent the 
 telegram he would have to sit thinking alone in his 
 studio, and if he didn't, Lucy would take him out for a 
 drive, and he'd forget his failure . . . for the time. 
 " Another half-hour will have to pass away," he said, 
 and he went to the window to wait. " Ah, here she 
 comes," and he planned an answer to her question. But 
 the question was never put. 
 
 As if she guessed that he had not been lucky with 
 painting, she spoke to him of friends, theatres, operas, 
 and so hearty was her interest in the passing show, that 
 he began to wonder if she really cared for painting at 
 all, or took any real interest in art, or was she tired of 
 him? Her abrupt departure, too, caused him further 
 
154 
 
 uneasiness, but he conducted her to her carriage and 
 bade her good-bye, letting her go without making an 
 appointment for the next day. When he was going to 
 see her again he did not know, and it did not much 
 matter; he was done for. It was in this mood that he 
 returned to the studio, and pulled out his canvas to look 
 at it in the fading light, but not in any hope that he 
 might be mistaken regarding its value. He wished to 
 know the worst — that was all: and while he sat thinking 
 of his rocks, Lucy was on her way to Mr. Carver, a plan 
 having begun in her mind that some means must be 
 discovered to distract Lewis's thoughts from his picture. 
 He must think of other pictures, and the only way to 
 win his thoughts from Daphnis and Chloe was a commis- 
 sion from Mr. Carver, his first patron, to paint a set of 
 decorative panels, sea nymphs and Tritons blowing conch 
 shells, a thing to hang above the fireplace of a long 
 Venetian dining-room. He would be able to paint these 
 pictures without any difficulty, and as soon as he had 
 finished this, Mr. Carver would ask him to paint a family 
 group, or separate portraits of himself, his wife, and 
 his sons and daughters. Lewis's own original talent could 
 be won back in time, she had no doubt, and she lay back 
 in the brougham looking forward to the interview with 
 Mr. Carver. 
 
 The time was late and the Bond Street shop would 
 be closed; but he lived in a street close by, in Saville 
 Row; she would go there and interview him, and a few 
 minutes afterwards the brougham stopped, and she was 
 shown up to the drawing-room, which seemed to her to 
 differ very little from the shop in Bond Street, so filled 
 was it with rare china, ormolu clocks, and eighteenth- 
 century French pictures. She remembered having seen 
 one of the clocks in the Bond Street shop, Mr. Carver 
 having drawn her attention to it. He had urged her to 
 buy it ; she had liked the clock, and did not know why she 
 
155 
 
 hadn't bought it. She might buy it still, it seemed, 
 for the first words he spoke on entering the room were: 
 " I'm glad to see you looking at that clock, Mrs. 
 Bentham; I like it so much myself that I had it brought 
 up from the shop, and got a good talking to for doing so, 
 for my wife says that once a thing comes up from the 
 shop it never goes back again. ' But as soon as my fancy 
 
 wears off ' I said. ' That will never be,' Mrs. Carver 
 
 replied tartly." 
 
 " You have many beautiful things here," Lucy remarked 
 at the first pause. 
 
 " Yes ; this room is my taste, Mrs. Bentham — the shop 
 is public taste. I'd like you to have another look at the 
 clock." 
 
 " Yes, but that must be for another day, Mr. Carver. 
 I have come to talk to you about something different, 
 and I must apologise for coming here and not waiting 
 till to-morrow morning; but you see, to-morrow morning 
 I shall be very busy. I am going down to Claremont 
 House." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I remember Claremont House. I hope you're 
 satisfied with Mr. Seymour's decorations? " 
 " Quite satisfied." 
 
 "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Bentham? The chairs are 
 worth sitting on — Louis XVI." 
 
 " But are you sure, Mr. Carver, that you can spare me 
 
 ten minutes? I feel that I'm intruding upon " 
 
 " Not in the least, Mrs. Bentham. At your service, at 
 your complete service." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Carver, you have just said that you 
 remember introducing me to Mr. Seymour and my giving 
 him an order to decorate the ballroom at Claremont 
 House; I shall always be grateful to you for your choice: 
 Mr. Seymour's decorations are a great success ; everybody 
 who has seen them admires them. And what is more 
 important, they were the means whereby he acquired an 
 
156 
 
 artistic education. He said he didn't think he could 
 invest the money he had earned more profitably than by 
 going to Paris to study drawing in the French schools. 
 His intentions were excellent, but I'm afraid things have 
 not turned out as he expected." 
 
 " Paris is a very dangerous place for a young man, and 
 
 I hope that Mr. Seymour has not So far as I know, 
 
 his conduct has always been above reproach." Mr. 
 Carver's face assumed a puzzled expression and Lucy 
 continued : 
 
 " No, his misfortune cannot be attributed to a dancing- 
 girl or to a grisette — at least, not so far as I know." 
 Mr. Carver held up his hand: how could she know 
 anything of such matters ! " You would never guess," 
 she continued, " he has very nearly lost all his talent ; 
 but it can be regained, I think and hope." 
 
 " Lost all his talent ? " 
 
 " Yes. You see, Mr. Carver, the education that is 
 measured out at the Beaux-Arts is not suitable to every 
 talent; it seems to me to be a sort of grinding-stone very 
 apt to take the edge off a talent. Not of all talents, of 
 course." 
 
 " Ah, now I'm beginning to understand you, Mrs. 
 Bentham: after a long course of study Mr. Seymour has 
 come back — how shall we put it? — a little tired." 
 
 " He has taken a studio in the Vale — you know the 
 Vale, King's Road, Chelsea.' - 
 
 Mr. Carver bowed, and Lucy continued : " He was 
 at first embarrassed to find a subject for a picture. He'd 
 like to exhibit in the Royal Academy, and his talent 
 being of the classical turn, he sought for a classical 
 subject, and found one in a story called Daphnis and 
 Chloe." 
 
 " A most charming story, Mrs. Bentham ; I know it 
 well." 
 
 " He has been redrawing the two figures for the last 
 
157 
 
 two months, recomposing the group, painting and scraping 
 out what he painted, and beginning again." 
 
 " And you think, Mrs. Bentham, that it would be well 
 that he should put aside that canvas, and start upon 
 something else — something lighter, easier? " 
 
 " You have interpreted my meaning exactly, Mr. 
 Carver, and I've come to ask you to commission him to 
 paint two overdoors; you know the style of things — sea 
 nymphs and Tritons blowing conch shells, Mr. Carver; 
 nymphs tressing their hair." 
 
 " To complete his decorations at Claremont House? " 
 
 " The decorations at Claremont House are completed ; 
 no, that isn't my intention. My intention was to ask 
 you to commission him to paint these two overdoors." 
 
 An almost imperceptible change came into Mr. Carver's 
 face, and noticing it she added : " And my intention in 
 giving this commission is to encourage Mr. Seymour, who 
 is suffering from a fit of depression. It would, therefore, 
 be well if you did not mention my name, but allowed 
 Mr. Seymour to think that the commission came from you. 
 My obligation to you will still further increase if you 
 will take charge of the pictures for me." 
 
 " Or sell them," Mr. Carver interjected, " if a pur- 
 chaser should come along. Every time a painter sells a 
 picture he enlarges his custom." 
 
 " I think it would be well for you to sell the pictures, 
 if you can find a purchaser; you will naturally exercise 
 your own discretion and judgment in this matter." 
 
 " You can count upon me, Mrs. Bentham, to nurture his 
 talent; a talent must be nurtured, and so fine a talent 
 as Mr. Seymour's requires a good deal of nurturing. 
 It shall be our mutual pleasure to bring it to maturity. 
 His foster-parents," he added, without a suspicion that 
 his tone was a little too familiar. " One possessed," he 
 said, " of the Venetian secret for decoration, born again 
 in a northern climate, come down through the ages from 
 
158 
 
 Pompeii, transmitted through Botticelli onward to Venice, 
 and away again through France, to reappear in the Vale ; " 
 and Mrs. Bentham listened to his eulogies with so evident 
 a pleasure that he continued them till, remembering 
 suddenly that his dinner hour was approaching, he said: 
 " You can count upon me, Mrs. Bentham, to carry this 
 thing through; and when the two overdoors have been 
 executed I would advise, if I may be permitted to offer a 
 word of advice " 
 
 " Pray do, Mr. Carver." 
 
 " Well, since you are so kind, Mrs. Bentham, I would 
 suggest that I continue from time to time to give Mr. 
 Seymour little commissions, and these pictures can be 
 put away until the time when Mr. Seymour becomes 
 recognised at the Academy, and then the little exhibition 
 of his early work might do well, and might repay both of 
 us." 
 
 " You think, then, that Mr. Seymour has a real talent, 
 one that will come to fruition? " 
 
 " Should I have recommended him to decorate your 
 ballroom if I had not faith in his talent? " And still 
 talking of his belief in Lewis Seymour's genius, Mr. 
 Carver conducted Mrs. Bentham to the front door, and 
 she drove away in her brougham with a feeling of warm 
 pleasure about her heart. 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 
 AS he sat pondering on the wreck of his picture, a knock 
 at the front door reverberated through the house, and 
 he began to ask himself who the visitor might be, for the 
 knock sounded like one, and any were welcome, for he 
 was weary of himself and art. His picture he must turn 
 to the wall : it must not be seen, for no explanation would 
 conceal the fact that he had failed. ..." Who can have 
 
159 
 
 come to see me at this hour, and before the breakfast 
 things have been taken away? " A man's voice reached 
 him — Carver's ! and the voice called to mind the rotund 
 figure, the portentous nose, the rich brown beard with 
 golden hair in it; and Lewis waited nervously, but glad 
 on the whole to meet the architect of his fortunes again, 
 " Such as they are," he said to himself as he handed the 
 great Jew a chair, who steering himself into it, began in a 
 deep voice, in which there was, however, a note of falsetto, 
 to tell Lewis that he had alighted on as pretty a perch as 
 he had seen for a long day. 
 
 " On a lease of twenty-one years, I hope," he said, 
 " for the owner of this property will sooner or later begin 
 to think that the ten acres might be developed, and, from 
 the little I've been able to gather in a first look round, 
 these might, with judicious handling, be made to produce 
 twice as much as the present rental." 
 
 " You're looking ahead. Where shall I be in twenty 
 years hence ? " Lewis answered. 
 
 And Carver repeated: " Twenty-one years pass more 
 quickly than anybody would believe to be possible." 
 Lewis listened vaguely to Mr. Carver's apprehensions; 
 and his indifference becoming apparent to Mr. Carver, he 
 broke off the conversation with : " You are painting some 
 beautiful pictures here ! Nymphs, of course. Lucky 
 fellows you artists are, with your paint-pots, your easels, 
 and your models. Quite Georgian," he said, looking round 
 the room. " I like the colour — apple green." And rising 
 to his feet he walked to and fro. Lewis heard him 
 muttering to himself : " Patting their bottoms " ; and 
 feeling the words to impugn his sincerity as an artist, 
 he answered somewhat hotly. Carver laughed, and, 
 producing a cigar case, fell to telling some racy stories, 
 to which Lewis listened with grace, for he had begun to 
 suspect that Carver had come to see him on a matter of 
 business. " Much pleasanter here than the Bond Street 
 
160 
 
 shop. And to think that it all came out of my shop ! 
 A very pretty piece of carving, too, you are," he added, 
 staring at Lewis, his large red lips showing through his 
 brown moustache. " And it was a lucky day for me, too, 
 that old Jacobs took the panel to you: Mrs. Bentham tells 
 me she is delighted with your decorations. I'm going 
 down to see them next week. She has invited me — does 
 that astonish you? " 
 
 " Why should it astonish me that Mrs. Bentham should 
 like to show you my decorations? " Carver had never 
 seemed to him so rude or so vulgar before; but he had 
 come to see him on a matter of business, so there was 
 nothing for it but patience, and not wishing to appear 
 too solicitous, he began to talk to Mr. Carver about the 
 decorations, telling him the difficulties he had to overcome 
 and how he had overcome them. " I wish you'd put me 
 on to another ballroom " 
 
 " I dare say, I dare say, but Mrs. Benthams are not 
 going every day." 
 
 " The money she paid me," Lewis continued, " was 
 all invested in education: two years in the studio in the 
 Passage des Panoramas, the evening classes at Les Beaux- 
 Arts; Evon's class" ; and he related that the right of 
 entry to Evon's was decided by competitive examination. 
 He had passed in twenty-fifth ; " over the heads of much 
 older men," he said. " If you could get me some more 
 decorations to do, I'd be able to show you what 
 I can do." 
 
 It did not seem to Lewis that Carver showed sufficient 
 astonishment; and, afraid that he might ask to see some 
 of his new work, Lewis complained of a certain staleness. 
 Eight hours, sometimes ten hours a day, he said, had 
 improved his handicraft in a certain direction, but the 
 great profit he had derived from his sojourn in France 
 was the knowledge that he had obtained of the decorative 
 art of the eighteenth century. The schools of Boucher 
 
161 
 
 and Fragonard, he affirmed, could not be studied outside 
 of the Louvre. " The money I received — two hundred 
 and fifty pounds — for the decorations " (he had received 
 four hundred, but thought it would be as well to dock a 
 hundred pounds', it was not likely that Lucy had men- 
 tioned the sum of money she had paid him) " carried me 
 over the two years I spent in Paris." 
 
 " And for it to carry you over two years in Paris, you 
 must have lived very frugally indeed ! " Mr. Carver 
 interjected solemnly. 
 
 A little embarrassed by Mr. Carver's solemnity, which 
 seemed to him somewhat portentous, Lewis threw himself 
 on Carver's generosity. 
 
 " You've helped me so far ; perhaps you will help me 
 to the end," he said. " For my position in London is not 
 secure. If, for instance, you could get me some portraits 
 to do." 
 
 " That will come later," Mr. Carver answered. " What 
 I have to do first is to ask you to do me a favour." 
 
 " A favour ? " Lewis answered. " How can I do you a 
 favour ? " 
 
 " Well, in this way. Of course, the prices you ask 
 now are very different from those which you were willing 
 to take two years ago; and a customer of mine has been 
 talking to me about some overdoors; and the moment she 
 began to tell me the kind of overdoors she wanted, I began 
 to think of you. But, I said to myself, he'll be wanting 
 very big prices indeed; and then it occurred to me that 
 perhaps, after all, you might not have forgotten that 
 one good turn deserves another. It was I that gave you 
 a start, and you might be willing, I said to myself, to 
 oblige me. Now, what do you say to two hundred 
 pounds apiece for the overdoors? You'll be doing me a 
 favour, Mr. Seymour." 
 
 Lewis strove to keep calm. The overdoors would not 
 take more than three weeks, a month at the most, and 
 
162 
 
 two overdoors would help him to forget the unfortunate 
 " Daphnis and Chloe." 
 
 " Of course, Mr. Carver, I shall be only too pleased to 
 undertake any work you choose to bring me. You men- 
 tioned two hundred pounds apiece for the overdoors. A 
 very fair price this seems to me; too much, in fact, 
 considering how much I owe you already. If you like " 
 
 " Oh, I couldn't think of underpaying you. It isn't to 
 be thought of, Mr. Seymour ; not to be thought of. If you 
 will do me the overdoors at two hundred pounds apiece, I 
 shall be very grateful to you. Now let us talk of other 
 things. I'd like to see your house. Apple green, with 
 yellow window-frames. Beautiful! You've some very 
 nice things about in the way of furniture, and will 
 remember when you want some French clocks that there 
 is a shop in Bond Street where these articles are to be 
 found. Not another word more ! All this house wants 
 is a little more furniture. What do you say to a nice 
 Aubusson carpet for your studio? They are very cheap 
 at present. I could get you one for twenty pounds, and 
 a beauty." 
 
 Lewis agreed that an Aubusson carpet under apple- 
 green walls, particularly if there was a little green in 
 the carpet, would be a charming addition to the already 
 charming appearance of his house. 
 
 He took Mr. Carver over each room, and then they 
 walked into the garden. 
 
 " Under your own vine and fig trees," Mr. Carver said. 
 " A wonderful place this Vale is, and I'm not sure that 
 you aren't right to leave it in its tangled aspects. A 
 woman would like flowers "; and talking of Mrs. Carver 
 and his daughters, they bent their steps in the direction 
 of the King's Road. 
 
 "You'll start the overdoors as soon as you can; my 
 customers ' ' 
 
163 
 
 " Immediately I return to the house I shall make a 
 sketch, Mr. Carver." 
 
 Mr. Carver waved his hand, and Lewis returned 
 wondering at his good fortune. Carver had given him 
 the dimensions, and with a sheet of paper in front of 
 him, the afternoon passed away agreeably amid dreams 
 of nymphs and Cupids, arrows, masks, and Kitty's 
 delightful little hody. It supplied a hint enough for 
 one nymph; her baby brother gave him all that he 
 required for a Cupid; and ideas coming abundantly and 
 freely, he lay down in his bed regretting that Carver 
 had not ordered many more overdoors. 
 
 He arose from his bed eager, and the day passed in 
 pleasant contentment; and at the end of the week he sat 
 down to write to Lucy all about his good fortune and 
 his pleasure in painting overdoors. Mr. Carver was 
 summoned at the end of three weeks to admire. He 
 placed his hands on Lewis's shoulders : " Admirable ! " 
 he said. " The genius of Boucher and Fragonard has 
 descended upon you; or perhaps I should have said, the 
 genius of Fragonard and Boucher has risen up within 
 you." 
 
 " What you say is very kind, Mr. Carver, and I'm sure 
 I'm very pleased that you like these decorations, but I'd 
 not have you think that my talent is limited to overdoors 
 and such-like. It is true that I had a misfortune with a 
 picture, when you came to me with the order for these 
 overdoors, and was feeling very miserable about it. But 
 while doing the overdoors, new ideas have come to me, and 
 I think I shall be able to bring a fresh eye to the picture." 
 " But it is only three weeks or a month since you have 
 put it aside. Wouldn't it be better to leave it by for a 
 much longer period ? " 
 
 " It would, indeed, Mr. Carver,'' Lewis answered, " but 
 I must do something. If you had any more over- 
 doors " 
 
164 
 
 " If I were to give you an order for another 
 overdoor " 
 
 " I'd much sooner you gave me an order for a portrait. 
 You spoke about your wife ? " 
 
 " I'll think it over," Mr. Carver answered. " Come 
 up to supper next Sunday — number seven, Saville Row — 
 and I'll introduce you to my daughters. Mother is 
 always asking me to have their portraits painted; and 
 I'd like to have a portrait of my wife. Supper at eight; 
 we'll talk it over." 
 
 A few years ago Lewis would have looked forward to 
 supper with the Carvers as a great advancement, but 
 his successes had given rise to a hope that he might 
 eventually cut some sort of figure in society, and he 
 now regarded shopkeepers with suspicion; and began 
 to think that if he were to drop in to supper, they might 
 drop into calling him Lewis. How was it to be managed ? 
 He couldn't write a note pleading a prior invitation. 
 " Once and once only,'' he said to himself as he crossed 
 St. James's Park, and he looked askance at a somewhat 
 nondescript servant who opened the door to him, " A sort 
 of overgrown pantry boy," he said to himself. And he 
 began to examine the large picture by Tintoretto that 
 hung in the passage. He noticed the rich furniture and 
 China vases on the landing, and muttered as he went 
 upstairs — " things he could sell in the shop." And the 
 people in the drawing-room struck him as being in keep- 
 ing with the house. He recognised Mrs. Carver as a 
 woman who had left much beauty behind her. A long 
 white nose, beautifully shaped, divided a heart-shapen 
 face, shaded with faded gold hair; Lewis could not tell 
 if it were natural or dyed. She was expensively dressed, 
 and it seemed to Lewis that she not only held his hand 
 unduly, but had entirely forgotten the presence of her 
 daughters, who waited in the background for mother to 
 
165 
 
 finish with the visitor. Some moments after she intro- 
 duced him — somewhat surreptitiously, he thought — to 
 Evelyn, a large white girl taking after her father rather 
 than her mother in features and colouring; already she 
 had begun to thicken in the waist, and the widening 
 flanks filled Lewis with apprehensions for her future. 
 But the second girl was on a much smaller scale, and 
 would have been undoubtedly very beautiful in his eyes 
 were it not for the large family nose. But was a nose 
 ever more beautifully moulded? Lewis asked himself, 
 and he admired the clear cynical eyes and the long thin 
 lips, seldom parted except when she laughed; and when 
 she laughed her lips disclosed a row of perfectly white 
 and shapely teeth. Her hair was brown with a golden 
 tinge in it, and the tiny curls that fell about her face 
 put the thought into Lewis's mind that he would like 
 to persuade her to unpin it. Her hand rested in his as 
 long as her mother's; she began to speak to him in a 
 low wavering voice, and before he was aware of it he 
 was sitting by her at some distance from the rest of 
 the family. 
 
 " How good of you to come here ! " and Lewis was 
 about to ask if she had ever sat for her portrait; but 
 at that moment Carver began to speak of Mrs. Bentham, 
 and then his tone changed suddenly; he read his wife's 
 face truthfully: it was on her tongue to ask: "Is she 
 the lady who called here a week ago, just after we had 
 sat down to dinner? " Carver was able to stop her in 
 time, and the girls chimed in opportunely with, " I'm 
 sure you like music, Mr. Seymour ? " 
 
 " But if you prefer talking " Ada said. 
 
 " I like both," Lewis answered, " singing and talking, 
 but not together." 
 
 " I'm glad of that," Ada whispered ; " you shall hear 
 us after supper " ; and they all went down talking very 
 loudly on the staircase. Mrs. Carver begged Lewis to 
 
166 
 
 take the chair next to hers, and she accentuated the re- 
 quest with an affectionate gesture. He was only just 
 seated, however, when a diversion was caused by some- 
 body ringing the front door bell. The whole family cried 
 out the visitor's name ; Mrs. Carver whispered it to Lewis, 
 bending over till he almost felt her lips upon his ear: 
 " The largest importer of blotting books in Europe," she 
 said. 
 
 A small thin man entered and was placed between the 
 two girls, who in turn besought him, half ironically and 
 half because they wished to exhibit a wealthy acquaint- 
 ance to Lewis, to tell them the result of the last year's 
 trading. The visitor seemed embarrassed at the girls' 
 loud entreaties, but having some instinct of a gentleman, 
 he answered them quietly, and then resumed a silence 
 which Lewis judged to be habitual. 
 
 " Now which of the girls is he after? " Lewis asked 
 himself, and it seemed to him impossible that either 
 could take much interest in the merchant, so uninviting 
 was his appearance. " It would be difficult to get an 
 interesting portrait out of him " ; and Lewis fell to won- 
 dering what he should do with that round skull covered 
 with short, scrubby hair, and a skin like aged parch- 
 ment, without colour in it. " There is drawing in the 
 hands ; it would be well to place them on his knees. But 
 which of the girls will he marry? He doesn't seem inter- 
 ested in either particularly, nor is he interested in him- 
 self. A tedious creature, but kind withal. But he is 
 after one for certain.'' He wondered why he should feel 
 certain that the merchant was bent on matrimony, and 
 hoped that the big girl was his choice, for already Lewis 
 had begun to think of Ada, or certain parts of her, while 
 talking to her mother. " It can hardly be the big girl 
 he is after," and as soon as an opportunity offered he 
 disengaged his eyes from Mrs. Carver, taking a closer 
 scrutiny of the merchant, with a view to discovering 
 
167 
 
 what the great importer's chances were. " A tendency 
 to consumption," he said to himself, and he applied him- 
 self to the task of answering Ada, who had become sud- 
 denly interested in his painting. 
 
 " When may we come to your studio ? " she inquired, 
 and Lewis answered that any afternoon he would be 
 pleased to see them. He never had a sitter after four, 
 and five is the hour for talk and tea. 
 
 " We have heard," she continued, " that you're going 
 to paint mother and father." 
 
 " If it is to be a group," Evelyn chimed in, " it had 
 better be a family group. Father, mother, and our- 
 selves." 
 
 " What about Nellie ? " Mrs. Carver asked. 
 
 " Oh, she's married," the girls exclaimed, " and no 
 canvas would hold us all. He must take us as we are." 
 
 Lewis began to feel frightened at the prospect of the 
 group of four which had projected itself so suddenly on 
 to a great canvas, and his mind was relieved as from a 
 great weight when Mr. Carver said he was much too 
 busy at present to give sittings. " You know, Mr. Sey- 
 mour, that Ingres had as many as fifty-five sittings for 
 
 his portrait of Monsieur B . It was not till the 
 
 fifty-first that he saw his sitter in the pose that he had 
 first in mind all the while he was painting. He said, ' My 
 picture is finished. At last I see you in the pose in 
 which you are yourself ' ; and fetching a new canvas he 
 
 began again. Monsieur B was, I suppose, a man of 
 
 leisure, but a busy man like myself has sales to attend 
 to and customers. Impossible, Mr. Seymour, just at 
 present, but one of these days, perhaps " ; and he burst 
 into a cheery laugh. 
 
 " Mr. Seymour must begin with mother," Ada said. 
 Mrs. Carver said she should have had her portrait 
 painted twenty years ago; Lewis protested and assured 
 
168 
 
 Mrs. Carver that he had in mind a very striking portrait 
 if she would only be good enough to sit for it. 
 
 " And when mother's portrait is finished," Ada began, 
 " it'll be our turn. Will you paint us together or singly ? " 
 
 Lewis said that he would like to do a group, and after 
 supper, when the ladies had gone up to the drawing- 
 room, Mr. Carver said : " Well now, Mr. Seymour, what 
 about terms ? " Lewis replied that the terms might well 
 be left to Mr. Carver. He was sure he would have no 
 cause to complain. 
 
 " Still, business is business,'' Mr. Carver answered. 
 " Have another cigar " ; and he considered while smok- 
 ing how much of these commissions should be paid by 
 Mrs. Bentham. The whole amount could not be charged 
 to her, since he was going to keep the pictures, but he 
 was having his family painted by Lewis Seymour to meet 
 Mrs. Bentham's expressed desire to assist Lewis, and, 
 therefore, must charge something to her account. 
 
 " What say you, Mr. Seymour, to three hundred pounds 
 for each portrait? " 
 
 Lewis was overwhelmed inwardly at Mr. Carver's gen- 
 erosity, but he managed to keep his countenance. 
 
 " Two hundred to Mrs. Bentham, and one hundred to 
 me," Mr. Carver said to himself ; " it sounds fair. In 
 this way we shall all be painted for a hundred pounds 
 apiece. A very fair proportion " ; and he watched a 
 ring of smoke flow upwards and disappear into the lustre. 
 "Shall we join the ladies? You said you'd like to 
 hear my daughters sing. My wife is a first-rate pianist 
 and could give points to a good many of the pros." 
 
 As they ascended the staircase the girls broke out into 
 " The Maid of Athens," and being in the humour to 
 hear them, Lewis thought that he was spending a highly 
 delectable evening. And so he was, attended on by 
 two girls, one of whom, Ada, besought him to sing some- 
 thing. 
 
169 
 
 " You must hear mother, else she'll not let us come 
 to the studio," Ada whispered. " Mother, dear, Mr. 
 Seymour is dying to hear you play one of Chopin's pre- 
 ludes," said she, and Lewis was so pleased with her play- 
 ing that she decided that the sittings for her portrait were 
 to begin next day: "And you'll tell me your interpreta- 
 tion of that wonderful prelude." 
 
 " A woman, a balcony above a garden, scent, silence 
 and darkness, inspired the melody," he said. " But a 
 sudden remembrance awakens a storm in her heart; she 
 would have the past return. But the past may never 
 return to us, and the sad exalted melody begins again. 
 That is how I hear the prelude, Mrs. Carver," Lewis 
 said, and she answered that he had put her feelings for 
 the prelude into words. " We shall have some pleasant 
 talks during the sittings," she said; and next day Lewis 
 was listening to Mrs. Carver's recital of Carver's wooing 
 of her and her married life, the birth of her children, 
 and the temptations she had endured. Carver did not 
 always remain Hannah's ideal (Lewis discovered her 
 Christian name before the end of the first sitting) ; all 
 the same, notwithstanding some heartbreakings, she had 
 remained faithful to Mr. Carver, a statement and assur- 
 ance from her that frightened Lewis a little, for at the 
 end of the sitting it seemed to him that she again held 
 his hand a little longer than was necessary. 
 
 " We'll pick up the thread where we dropped it 
 to-day," she said, looking back at him out of her car- 
 riage window, and the next day her daughters came to 
 view the portrait, which they much admired. " I never 
 should have thought that mother would have made such 
 a good portrait," Evelyn whispered to Lewis, but the 
 more subtle Ada had always thought that mother would 
 inspire a good portrait, a remark which so pleased Mrs. 
 Carver that she proposed they should all go into the 
 garden, and they were not long there before Ada con- 
 
170 
 
 trived to lead Lewis away from her mother and sister. 
 
 " Tell mother that her hands are as plaintive as the 
 prelude, and she will agree to anything. ... I want her 
 permission to take lessons, if you will give me lessons." 
 
 " Of course I'll give you lessons." Ada's bushy hair 
 and appealing eyes came into his consciousness, and he 
 finished her mother's likeness while dreaming how he 
 should possess the daughter. 
 
 A portrait painted in these circumstances would, if 
 Nature were not altogether illogical, prove a great failure, 
 but, as all painters know, their best work is often done 
 in trying circumstances; and, despite Ada's requests for 
 assistance, the portrait progressed towards completion. 
 It rose into being almost unconsciously without a check 
 from the beginning, and while Lewis was placing the last 
 touches upon it, the two girls were saying that mother 
 would have a great success in the Academy, and their 
 admiration brought Mr. Carver down to the Vale to 
 admire the portrait, and he was so struck by it, that he 
 somewhat incautiously announced that it exceeded his 
 expectations, and that, perhaps, the time had come for 
 him to consider how he might try to squeeze time to give 
 Mr. Seymour sittings for his picture. His daughters 
 hung on to the lapels of his coat; Mr. Carver clasped 
 his wife's hand, and a dream rose up in his mind of one 
 whole wall in Saville Row covered with his family. " And 
 after my death," he said, striking his hand into his waist- 
 coat and looking into space, " we shall all go to the Na- 
 tional Gallery." 
 
 The portraits of Ada and Evelyn were begun soon 
 after, and guided by his remembrance of their singing 
 he began to imagine them as sirens among rocks by 
 a summer sea, lighted by stars only. One sister, Evelyn, 
 would have liked the moon showing, but Lewis said that 
 the moonlight would throw shadows, and his dream was 
 a pale, suffused light. He garmented them in diaphanous 
 
171 
 
 robes, putting a lyre into Ada's hand, saying to Evelyn, 
 " throw back your head ; sing the high G. Now I've 
 gotten a singing mouth, and on that note your voice will 
 stream across the Bay bringing many sailors to their 
 doom." 
 
 The girls came to sit for their portraits together and 
 separately, accompanied by their maids, of course, and 
 while Lewis was painting Evelyn, Ada worked at a 
 water-colour till she was called to the dai's. 
 
 The group flowed on as easily as the mother's portrait 
 had done, till one day the thought passed into Ada's mind 
 that she might go into the garden while Lewis was finish- 
 ing Evelyn's dress. " Lewis," she said to herself, " will 
 come to fetch me, and we needn't return to the studio 
 at once." 
 
 Things happen very often as women have planned 
 them, and on the day in question Lewis found Ada sitting 
 under the mulberry-tree, overjoyed at the success of her 
 trick. " At last ! " she said and the words were full 
 of significance, and carried them at once into another 
 zone of intimacy. " We mustn't keep Evelyn waiting 
 more than five minutes, or she'll be down after us. To- 
 morrow I'll try to get rid of my maid. Evelyn is going 
 to a singing lesson. You won't hurry, dear, over my 
 portrait. . . . How happy you are with your painting! 
 But aren't you often lonely ? " 
 
 " Yes, in the evenings." 
 
 " I don't think I can come to you in the evenings, 
 but I'll get rid of the maid's embargo." 
 
 Ada was full of invention for walks in the garden, 
 and beyond the garden, and Lucy's friends told her that 
 Lewis was often to be met walking with a Jewess in the 
 King's Road, and Lewis answered that after a sitting 
 he put Miss Carver into a cab, and like one entirely de- 
 tached, he related that Ada often spoke to him of the 
 importer of blotting-books, which was true to a certain 
 
172 
 
 extent. Mr. and Mrs. Carver, he said, looked favour- 
 ably on the match, but for the present, at least, Ada 
 couldn't abide the importer of blotting-books, an aversion 
 that Lewis was careful not to emphasize in his narrative. 
 Lucy sought in his eyes for confirmation of these stories, 
 but they told her nothing, his interest in the young girl 
 being but a sensual curiosity, already declining. The 
 same words would tell what her interest in him had been, 
 and what it was, and without the other being aware of 
 it, each was seeking independently a way out of an 
 intrigue which began to seem to them to have run its 
 course. 
 
 " Lewis, dear," she said one day, " don't make it harder 
 for me. My father and mother are pressing me to marry 
 him." 
 
 " Darling, what is to be done ? " he answered, though 
 his heart was uplifted at the news. " Tell me," he asked 
 in a stern tone, " what your answer is," and she an- 
 swered: "We will always remain friends, but once I'm 
 married you won't care to kiss me again." 
 
 " I shall always care to kiss lips as soft as yours and 
 as red." 
 
 " But not mine," she answered. They bade each other 
 good-bye; and feeling somewhat ashamed of his lack of 
 soul, he walked in the garden, and standing in front of 
 his picture he wondered how it was that things happened 
 so oddly in this world. He added a few touches to her 
 portrait, and fell to thinking that she would go to Ger- 
 many to live, and when she returned it would be with a 
 baby. How very sad ! with this, however, of good in it, 
 that the news of her marriage would quiet Lucy; and 
 feeling he could do no more painting that day, he laid 
 aside his palette and went to Carlton House Terrace to 
 ask his mistress to come to the Park with him if she 
 were disengaged that afternoon. She was always ready 
 to do what he asked her, and while sitting under the 
 
173 
 
 trees -watching the fashionable strollers he related the 
 news to Lucy. 
 
 " Ada Carver is, as I told you, going to marry the 
 importer of blotting-books." 
 
 " Eeally? Well, I hope she'll be happy," Lucy an- 
 swered. " Well, that is over," she said to herself. But 
 one flirtation begins another, and soon Lewis was en- 
 tangled in many others. Love affairs seemed to rise 
 out of his pictures as out of a love philtre, and again the 
 news reached Lucy's ears that he was in love: he had 
 been seen driving with a woman, a girl in a plaid dress 
 and with golden hair slipping over her ears, doubtless 
 a model, and she began to try to take counsel with her- 
 self, reminding herself that she was now forty-five. She 
 had said to herself in the days long ago at Fontainebleau : 
 " If I get seven years I shall be satisfied and will retire 
 gracefully. Sooner or later the break will come," she 
 said, " but how will it come ? " And turning from the 
 glass, she asked how it was the future is always hidden 
 from us, and, therefore, we poor mortals can do nothing 
 but wait till time or accident set us and our lives apart. 
 
 " A woman dies twice," she said, " and in a very few 
 years it is borne in upon us that our mouths are no 
 longer fit for kisses. His mouth, too, will one day cease to 
 be attractive. Would that it were hateful to all women 
 to-day. He is twelve years younger than I." And she 
 fell to thinking. Something might be done to persuade 
 her husband to consent to a divorce. But it was too late. 
 He had loved her once, and would always like her better 
 than any other woman, so he had said. Could she blame 
 him? Not with justice, for he had given her many 
 happy years — given her herself, for without his love she 
 would not have known herself. Why, then, was she dis- 
 satisfied? If she had purchased her freedom and they 
 had married, would her case be any better? Even in 
 marriage one cannot keep on kissing indefinitely. Time 
 
174 
 
 brings an end to all things. Our pleasures go one after 
 the other till nothing but our children remain. Ah, if 
 she had had a child by Lewis, losing him would not be 
 so hard to bear. 
 
 CHAP. XXVII. 
 
 WHILE Lucy sorrowed, Lewis rejoiced in his liberty 
 regained. He had been faithful to Lucy for several 
 years, not knowing whether his fidelity sprang from love 
 or from gratitude, but he had been faithful. Ada had 
 broken the bonds he had put upon himself, and once the 
 bond was broken, there was no reason why he should 
 deny himself the pleasure of every intrigue that presented 
 itself. As soon as the day's painting was over, he was 
 paying visits in Mayfair, talking painting, architecture, 
 sculpture, and sometimes landscape gardening to ladies. 
 And sometimes they leaned over a table examining water- 
 colours, views, and aspects that the lady had accom- 
 plished during the summer months in her country resi- 
 dence, while the men were shooting grouse and partridges; 
 waterfalls, windmills, and other picturesque spots were 
 examined with attention and appreciation, and sometimes 
 Lewis asked for the water-colours and criticised, brush 
 in hand. " You see what I mean ? " he would say. " All 
 the lines should run into the picture. Lines running out 
 of the picture make bad composition, and though we hear 
 a great deal about skies being light, skies are often 
 better dark than light." 
 
 Remarks such as these are very impressive; and every 
 word the lady said seemed to go straight to his heart, 
 to be treasured therein. His round magnetic eyes were 
 always fixed upon her, and in this way he unravelled 
 intrigue after intrigue. Every post brought him letters 
 from women, and as the years went on his failures became 
 
175 
 
 fewer and fewer. He recognised mistakes in the past, 
 and whenever he fell to meditating them a tall girl, 
 who had walked with him by a river, under trees, rose up 
 in his memory, so strangely distinct that he felt that all 
 his conquests were worthless, having lost this one. He 
 had attracted her once, but that was years ago, and if 
 they were to meet, he asked himself, would she pass him 
 by? He had not been passed by unnoticed when he was 
 a poor lad seeking a livelihood — why should she pass 
 him by now? His success would astonish and win her, 
 but he was older, and she was a girl, perhaps, who liked 
 men in the twenties. He was only in the beginning of 
 the thirties, but they might not meet till he was forty, 
 and then it would be too late. " All the others were but 
 shadows of this one," he said one morning, and put out 
 his hand to gather up some letters. The first came from 
 a woman whom he had met at a party a couple of nights 
 before. " An uninteresting female," he said, and a mo- 
 ment after, his heart began to beat, for the letter brought 
 the welcome news that Lord and Lady Granderville and 
 Lady Helen Trevor had returned from St. Petersburg, 
 and were in London for the season. 
 
 The next letter he opened was from Lucy, and it came 
 to remind him that he was engaged to dine with her 
 on the 12th of June, the night of her ball. "And it 
 will be at that ball I shall meet Lady Helen," he said. 
 " She will be there for certain. Good heavens ! I shall 
 see her in how many days ? In thirteen days ! I wonder 
 if she will know me again. And how strange that I 
 should have been thinking of her, and that Lucy should 
 be giving a ball to which she has invited all her friends. 
 She cannot have omitted the Grandervilles." And in his 
 imagination he could see Lady Helen rising out of white 
 silk; her blonde hair like a crown of gold. She was 
 a girl when he saw her. She had liked him that day, 
 
176 
 
 but she had seen many a man since. Was she still a 
 virgin? He turned over in bed and lay thinking. 
 
 He made many calls that afternoon with a view to 
 picking up news of the Grandervilles, but the days went 
 by without his meeting them, and on the night of Lucy's 
 ball he experienced a strange exaltation of the senses as 
 he walked through Eaton Square, saying: "A great 
 artist, perhaps — a successful artist, certainly — is going 
 to meet the beautifullest woman of a great period," and 
 the thought gladdened him that never in the old monar- 
 chical days had so many crowned heads passed along the 
 banks of the Thames. " Never," he said to himself, as 
 he came into view of the trees showing above the high 
 walls that enclose the gardens of Buckingham Palace, 
 " have the daughters of cotton-spinners been so anxious 
 to exchange their wealth for the owner of the escutcheon. 
 A wonderful moment," he continued, " a sort of intoxica- 
 tion, a desire of love and of art ; and how much pleasanter 
 it is now that women have ceased to take the trouble to 
 conceal their intrigues." He laughed to himself, for his 
 thoughts had gone back to the night when Lucy told him 
 that in 1750 a certain French Marquis wrote to Louis 
 XV., saying : " It is true that my daughter is sixteen 
 years of age, but she is as innocent of what a man is as 
 a babe unborn." " The reign of Louis XV. is again upon 
 London " ; and he remembered the professional beauties, 
 the wives of unknown gentlemen, who had become cele- 
 brated in the space of a single night, and the people 
 standing upon the chairs in the Park, so that they might 
 see them better as they went by. " On every table," he 
 said, " are photographs of Frank Miles's drawings of our 
 courtesans, and the presents they receive are discussed in 
 every drawing-room; and yet there are those who do 
 not believe in progress." 
 
 He had read somewhere that every age is remembered 
 by a word; to organise represents the fugitive Empire 
 
177 
 
 founded by Napoleon, "And the professional beauty," 
 he reflected, " represents Lord Beaconsfield's Govern- 
 ment. But we're doing better in a way than the Court 
 of Louis XV., for in the eighteenth century young girls 
 — except those especially reserved for the King — were 
 exempt from the general profligacy; but, great Scott! 
 to-day the young girls compete with the married women, 
 and very often are successful." A moment after he was 
 asking himself if Lady Helen had remained a virtuous 
 young girl in the Court of St. Petersburg, or taken her 
 first lessons in love from some splendid Russian nobleman 
 on the staircase. He would have liked to have been that 
 
 young man, and But here he was at Carlton House 
 
 Terrace, and he went up the great stairway with a faint 
 hope in his heart that he might be asked to take Lady 
 Helen down to dinner. But there wasn't much chance 
 of that. Lucy would remember the incipient flirtation 
 years ago, and would arrange her table accordingly. For 
 this he admitted he could not blame her, and the long 
 dinner went by drearily by the side of a dowager, whose 
 mottled shoulders set him thinking of the snowy shoul- 
 ders he would see ascending the stairs. " Under snowy 
 shoulders we may seek a volcano, and find one," he said 
 to himself, and continued to find conversation to amuse 
 the dowager, who had been confided to his charge, till the 
 people began to arrive for the ball. 
 
 " The Grandervilles will not be here before midnight," 
 he said. " And perhaps some indisposition may keep 
 Helen at home." 
 
 At last he heard their names called in the hall, and 
 looking over the banisters saw Helen as he had seen her 
 in many an imaginary portrait — an extraordinary white- 
 ness rising out of white silk. " She wears her golden 
 hair like a crown, just as I have seen her in dreams. 
 Her bosom, too, is exquisite," he said ; " almost as a boy's 
 — just a turn, no more." 
 
178 
 
 " Lord and Lady Granderville ! " the prime butler 
 shouted. " Lady Helen Trevor ! " he added, in a slightly 
 lower tone, and the men above leaning over the banisters 
 looked down into Helen's bosom seeing her shoulders ris- 
 ing out of the scanty bodice, stiffly boned, held in its place 
 by two narrow ribbons: the one her father had forbidden 
 her to wear. " But she is wearing it ! " No one spoke the 
 words, but they were in the air; and all eyes rejoiced to 
 see that the only concession she had made to her dress- 
 maker's fears and her father's sense of propriety was a 
 cluster of Aimee Vibert roses on her left breast. With 
 a string of pearls about her neck, she ascended the 
 stairs slowly, the gold of her hair coiled into a high 
 knot, into which her maid had pinned a single flower. 
 Her father followed her, muttering: " She might as well 
 have come without a bodice at all " ; and he kept his 
 eyes for shame's sake averted from his daughter's back, 
 affecting great care not to tread on the heavy train of 
 white silk that flowed over the pompous bustle. 
 
 Lucy, at the head of the stairs, received the Grander- 
 villes, and Lewis compared the mistress that had been 
 and was still his with the girl he hoped would soon be- 
 come his mistress ... or his wife! 
 
 Lucy was in pink tulle and was still a young woman 
 though she would never see forty-five again. . . . 
 
 " Did you ever see such a skin ? " Day said, speaking 
 of Lady Helen. " She is like milk." 
 
 " I would rather compare Lady Helen's whiteness to 
 a lily's," Ripple replied in a reproving tone. " She looks 
 as if she had stepped out of Gautier's poem, Symphonie 
 en Blanc Majeur. 
 
 ' De quel mica de neige vierge, 
 De quelle moelle de roseau, 
 De quelle hostie et de quel cierge 
 A-t-on fait le blanc de sa peau.' " 
 
179 
 
 " You may quote French as much as you like," Day 
 answered, " but you won't change me, and though my 
 French may be limited, I understand some words. A 
 grain of virgin snow, isn't that it? Well, it won't do, 
 Ripple. You must try something else. She is creme de 
 la creme to look at and I should think creme de menthe 
 in the mouth." 
 
 " A vulgar little cur," Ripple said to himself as he 
 turned away suddenly and went towards the Misses 
 Davidson: the oldest was in blue, the youngest in white, 
 and the litter was chaperoned by Lady Archer. Next 
 to them were Mrs. Ormrod and her three daughters, for 
 Lucy never forgot to send invitations to her Sussex 
 neighbours — they came or stayed away as they liked, but 
 they got invitations; there they were sitting in sym- 
 metrical rows, the same people who were at the tennis 
 party ten years ago at Claremont House, making quite 
 a little party led by Mrs. Swannell, the wife of the mem- 
 ber for the county. 
 
 Most of the guests had arrived ; occasionally the servant 
 shouted out a name, and if Lucy caught sight of the new- 
 comers she advanced to meet them, but her duties as 
 hostess were now practically over, and she regarded her- 
 self as free to enter the dance with her beaux. 
 
 " Mrs. Campbell Ward," shouted the servant, and Lucy 
 held out her hand to a tall, large woman with brown 
 hair, dyed sufficiently to give it a golden tinge. A young 
 man was waiting for her and she took his arm, and Lucy 
 said to the man whose arm she had accepted, " A game 
 that will never go out of fashion." At the same moment 
 the blare of the cornet came through the soft sound of 
 the fiddles; the clarinet repeated the principal theme, 
 soon to be lost in the clash of cymbals ; then string, wood 
 and brass brought the waltz to a close. And as soon as 
 the music ceased a crowd of black coats and white shoul- 
 ders moved forwards and words " ices " and " heat " 
 
180 
 
 were heard constantly. Every time Mrs. Campbell Ward 
 came into view a hush fell, and instinctively the men 
 withdrew to let beauty pass, the men with envious eyes, 
 the women with cold indifference verging on contempt. 
 Once she was followed and closely by Lady Helen, and 
 this was the great moment of the ball, the moment in 
 which everybody asked himself and herself which was the 
 most beautiful woman. A strange look passed between 
 the women, and then, forgetful of Lady Helen, Mrs. 
 Campbell Ward took Lord Senton's arm and went towards 
 the ballroom. Lady Helen tapped Lewis's arm with a 
 smile that seemed to say " Presently," and taking the 
 arm of the gentleman who had come to claim the dance 
 she disappeared. 
 
 Lewis was now free, and he joined the group of artists, 
 anxious to hear their opinion of his full-length portrait 
 of Lucy, hanging at the other end of the room con- 
 spicuously draped — " A little too conspicuously," Lewis 
 said, " but of course we artists have no choice in such 
 matters as this." 
 
 " Now, Hilton, should I be presuming too much on your 
 kindness to ask you for a candid opinion? " 
 
 " By no means, my dear Seymour. If I understand 
 your picture correctly, you wished to decorate a surface, 
 and you have done it, and admirably." 
 
 " But a portrait," Holt interjected, " is something more 
 than a mere decorated surface. A portrait without char- 
 acter is not a portrait. You must not understand by this, 
 my dear Seymour, that I am of opinion that you have 
 omitted any essential characteristic: I like your portrait 
 and would not have it different, except, perhaps, the 
 shoulders. Now, if you look at the shoulders of those 
 young girls you will see what I mean. Life has accents 
 that many of us fear to include in our pictures. We're 
 afraid of life; we deem life a vulgarity and think that 
 we must attenuate and omit, whereas vulgarity, to my 
 
181 
 
 thinking, though I don't expect you or Hilton to think 
 with me in this matter, is lack of personality. I don't 
 see how any man's art, if it be personal, can be said to 
 be vulgar : to be vulgar is to be like other people, whereas 
 if you are not like anybody but yourself, it cannot be 
 said you are vulgar." 
 
 Hilton broke in here : " Gustave Dore is like nobody 
 but himself, but he's vulgar. No, I cannot agree that 
 originality and personality are convertible terms." The 
 Academicians continued their argument till the waltz was 
 over and Lady Helen reappeared, fanning a white face 
 into which had risen some delicate shades of rose. 
 
 " Those tints could only be got by a glaze, Holt." 
 
 Lewis was much interested in Holt's criticism, but he 
 was now thinking of Lady Helen, and so intensely that 
 he forgot his interest in painting and rushed off to ask 
 her for another dance, leaving Holt to explain to a young 
 man who was engaged for a dance with one of the Misses 
 Davidson, that a glaze did not mean a return to archaic 
 painting. The young man deemed it to be politeness to 
 listen, and his partner, seeing her dance diminishing, said: 
 " I wish Mr. Holt would leave off talking to Freddy ; 
 I shall lose half my dance. Hostesses would do well 
 not to ask men to their balls who want to talk 
 painting." 
 
 " And I think it is unfair to ask girls to balls and not 
 introduce them," the sister answered ; " bringing us up 
 from Sussex to watch others dancing — I was never so 
 bored in my life." 
 
 Mr. Campbell Ward came from the card-tables, and 
 his relations with his wife set the girls talking. " I 
 wonder," said Miss Davidson, " if he walks out of the 
 drawing-room when Lord Worthing calls." 
 
 " I'm not sure I don't admire a husband who walks out 
 of the drawing-room, leaving his wife alone with her 
 lover," Miss Ormrod said, causing her friends to look at 
 
182 
 
 her askance ; and she regretted her words as soon as they 
 had passed her lips, feeling that she had, in the expres- 
 sion of the popular idiom, given herself away. 
 
 " I don't know that it would matter, for one never 
 feels safe in a drawing-room. Servants are always com- 
 ing in and out," Miss Davidson remarked, and she too 
 regretted her observation, feeling that perhaps she had 
 given rise to suspicion regarding the propriety of her 
 conduct on all occasions. 
 
 The group watched Mr. Campbell Ward pass his arm 
 through Lord Worthing's and walk away. 
 
 " I hear that Mr. Campbell Ward plays heavily; per- 
 haps he is asking Lord Worthing for a cheque. But 
 here comes Mr. Seymour, with his old love on his arm " ; 
 and the girls began to speak of the days long ago when 
 they were introduced to Mr. Seymour. 
 
 "He didn't look half so well as he does to-day; a 
 dapper little man came down to do the drawing-room 
 decorations, when Miss Fanshawe won the tennis match, 
 do you remember? " 
 
 And the appearance of Mrs. Bentham on her lover's 
 arm set the painters again talking of Lewis's portrait. 
 
 " Talent ! Good heavens ! " broke in Mr. Holt. " Is 
 his picture in cardboard or linoleum — which surface? " 
 
 " But surface isn't everything in a picture," Ripple 
 remarked. 
 
 " Yes," Holt replied, " it is. Touch is art " ; and he 
 began to develop the theory that touch was essential in 
 all the arts. 
 
 "In literature?" Ripple interjected. 
 
 " Yes, in literature," Holt continued, " and that is why 
 women neither paint, nor write, nor play the piano as well 
 as men — they lack touch. In love only is their touch 
 exquisite." 
 
 " Our friend," Hilton remarked, " invites us to follow 
 him down a dangerous incline — primrose paths leading to 
 
183 
 
 a bonfire." And the Academician's remark put every- 
 body in good humour, but the humour of the moment 
 was broken suddenly by the arrival of Lord Senton with 
 his little mongrel secretary, Day, who had been down 
 in the supper-room, and had come up rather tipsy. 
 
 " Now, what are you learned gentlemen talking about ? 
 Which woman would make the best model for Venus 
 is the subject of your talk. Which — Lady Helen or 
 Mrs. Campbell Ward? Lord Senton thinks Mrs. Camp- 
 bell Ward the nobler." 
 
 " I didn't say nobler, Day. When you quote, quote 
 correctly." 
 
 " Well, well, what did your lordship say ? That the 
 girls this year " — Day steadied himself on his legs — 
 " are randier than last year's lot ? Was that it ? " 
 
 " Day, you're tipsy ! " Senton replied angrily. 
 
 " I'll " He clenched his decayed teeth, and, afraid of 
 
 an uproar, some friends led Day away and came between 
 them. Lord Senton went forth to meet Lady Helen, 
 muttering: "I'll give the fellow the sack to-morrow." 
 
 CHAP. XXVIII. 
 
 " LET us sit here," Lucy said, and noticing Lewis's hesi- 
 tation, " if you're not engaged for this waltz. Are you? " 
 
 " Yes," Lewis replied, some colour mounting his cheeks. 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 Afraid that she would object to his dancing with 
 Lady Helen, he answered that he was engaged to Miss 
 Davidson. 
 
 " Very well, then, we will dance together later on," 
 Lucy said. 
 
 " I'll put Miss Davidson off, if you like." 
 
 " On no account. Those girls haven't had too many 
 partners. I want them to enjoy themselves." 
 
184 
 
 "You don't mind?" 
 
 " Not in the least. What right have I to mind ? You 
 are your own master." 
 
 " Lucy, dear, don't answer so crossly. If you don't 
 like me to, I won't dance with her." 
 
 At this moment the band began to play again, and Mrs. 
 Campbell Ward and Lord Worthing came forward 
 to speak to Lucy. " You're not thinking of going? " 
 she said; and seeing that Lucy would be engaged in talk 
 for some time with her departing guests, he hurried away 
 to find Lady Helen waiting for him, and went off to 
 dance, completely under the charm of her beauty. 
 
 It seemed to him that he had never desired anything 
 but faintly, and that this was the first time he had ever 
 been able to particularise a passion. He remembered 
 Lady Helen as something extraordinarily white with corn- 
 coloured hair, and the slight change that the years had 
 wrought in her inflamed his passion to possess her. The 
 young girl whom he remembered had passed away into 
 a young woman, hardly less beautiful, he thought, and 
 more urgently desired by him, for now he felt himself 
 capable of a deeper passion than in the days when he had 
 just come out of poverty. Claremont House had not 
 been able altogether to efface the privations of the Water- 
 loo Road. He admired Lady Helen as much as his 
 strength allowed him to admire her in those starveling 
 days, but now life appeared more brilliant, more distinct, 
 and as he glided over the floor with her he compared 
 her, and to her advantage, with every other woman. 
 The touch of her limbs as they waltzed together quick- 
 ened the blood in his veins till Lucy was forgotten, and 
 nothing seemed to matter but the moment. But Lucy, 
 who did not believe Lewis when he said he was going to 
 dance with Miss Davidson, determined to go in search of 
 them as soon as she could shake herself free from 
 Mrs. Campbell Ward and Lord Worthing. The twain, 
 
185 
 
 however, delayed her; other couples came up at the 
 same time. The supper-rooms were open; guests were 
 flocking on the staircase. Lucy found herself obliged 
 to ascend the stairs with them. She was detained again 
 and again; and when at last, wearied out, she got back 
 to the ballroom, the waltz was over. She was stopped 
 by young men who thought it their duty to ask her for 
 a dance, and by women, who talked commonplaces to her. 
 The necessity of answering them politely provoked her 
 beyond endurance. She got rid of one with a " Yes " 
 and another with a " No," and a third with an occasional 
 smile. She pressed through a group of black coats into 
 the card-room. Lewis was not there. A whist party 
 that had just risen detained her again. She again got 
 caught in a crowd of dancers. 
 
 " If you see Mr. Seymour," she asked a young man, 
 an admirer who aspired to Lewis's succession, " will you 
 tell him I'd like to speak to him? " 
 
 " Certainly, Mrs. Bentham " ; and he told her that he 
 had seen Lewis in the supper-room. 
 
 Lucy answered that she had just come up from the 
 supper-room, and Lewis was not there ; but the young man 
 assured her that he was, and thinking that perhaps he 
 had gone down to supper while she had been speaking to 
 Lord William in the card-room, she said: "Thank you; 
 if you see him, tell him I want to speak to him." 
 
 " But may I not go down to the supper-room and fetch 
 him for you? " and once more she descended the stair- 
 case, now full of light dresses and black coats passing 
 up and down, looking at themselves in the great mirror 
 as they passed. 
 
 At the bottom of the staircase was a tessellated pave- 
 ment with high pillars that supported the gallery over- 
 head, and as she passed across this hall the sounds of 
 music died away amid the clatter of supper in a long 
 room wainscoted as high as the doors in oak, with 
 
186 
 
 pilasters dividing the walls, and dark-green velvet cur- 
 tains hanging from massive gold cornices. 
 
 " The feast of the chaperons," Lucy heard somebody 
 say, and the phrase would have amused her at any other 
 time, for everywhere she caught sight of lumpy shoulders, 
 and the young men in attendance on these called to the 
 servants for pate de foie gras, salmis de pleuvier dore, 
 ham, cutlets, cream and jelly. A young man asked Lucy 
 if he could get her anything, and she asked if he had 
 seen Mr. Seymour. " A friend of mine, Lady Ascot, is 
 most anxious to meet him. Do try to find him 
 for me." 
 
 The young man returned without news of Lewis, and 
 Lucy returned to the ballroom with a great number of 
 dancers, who began to form themselves into quadrilles. 
 And Lucy watched them dancing, the fumes of cham- 
 pagne in their heads, the different couples coming and 
 going in a confusion of bright stuffs. And the rhythm, 
 having mixed the colours, brought back on certain notes 
 the same rose satin skirt, the same blue velvet bodice, 
 next to the same black coats. Then, like a shower of 
 fireworks, they all disappeared up the room, and so on 
 hour after hour. 
 
 A melancholy gaiety, it all seemed to her — dancers 
 and card-players ; and leaving the card-players she walked 
 round the gallery encircling the head of the stairs, think- 
 ing of the bedrooms which were reached by two small 
 staircases united by a long passage. 
 
 " Surely they cannot be sitting up there alone ! She 
 wouldn't be mad enough to hide behind this curtain." 
 And she drew aside the curtain. Nobody was on the 
 staircase. She ascended the stairs and stopped for a 
 moment, puzzled, passed along the passage by her room, 
 from whence came a faint odour of verveine, and pre- 
 pared to descend to the ballroom by the other. But on 
 the sound of voices she stopped again, and descending 
 
187 
 
 a few steps, looked over the banisters and saw Lewis 
 sitting with Helen. 
 
 The temptation to eavesdropping was overpowering, 
 and she gave an anxious ear to the broken murmur of talk 
 that reached her — without, however, being able to divine 
 the words. 
 
 " Will he kiss her ? " she asked herself ; and a moment 
 after she saw Lewis kiss Helen on the point of her 
 shoulder, and the sight smote her with such violence that, 
 stifling a cry, she stole away to her room. As she stood 
 there dazed, the thought struck her that the kiss that she 
 had witnessed might be but a prelude to an act that 
 would divide her from Lewis irreparably. " He will 
 marry her," she said, and hastened to the staircase, hop- 
 ing that she might not arrive too late ; but the lovers were 
 gone, and she lingered at the head of the stairs, asking 
 herself if they had gone away to dance and would re- 
 turn. As it seemed to her not unlikely that they would 
 return to kiss again, she sat on the top stair waiting for 
 them, her brain becoming gradually benumbed with music. 
 Waltz upon waltz, polka upon polka, a false gaiety that 
 burdened her brain till she could bear it no longer, and 
 she returned to her room, her mind filled with broken 
 thoughts. " I'm done for, I'm done for ! " she repeated 
 again and again, till she was weary of the words, and 
 looked around her room in search of some means whereby 
 she might end her life. But there was no poison on her 
 dressing-table, nor even an opiate ; and she lay awake hour 
 after hour crazed with grief — or was it jealousy? She 
 did not know, and she cared not — nothing mattered to her 
 now; and the words that came up again and again in 
 her mind were : " My life is ended, my life is ended ; I'm 
 done for ! " And then she remembered that other men 
 had made love to her. That very evening a man had 
 told her that she was a delectable morsel. She turned 
 from the remembrance with mingled anger and disgust, 
 
188 
 
 and with the knowledge that she would not find forget- 
 fulness of Lewis in another man's arms. The thought of 
 revenge passed quickly. She did not wish to revenge 
 herself upon him. " Moreover," she said to herself, 
 " even if he knew that I'd gone over to another, he 
 might not care." " He must never know ! " she wailed 
 out, and prayed for strength not to speak of Helen when 
 he called. " He will be sure to call about tea time "; and 
 she feared the interview so much that the reality, when 
 it appeared, seemed trivial compared with the anticipa- 
 tion. He mentioned that she looked tired, and she an- 
 swered that every woman is tired after her ball. She 
 noticed that he did not dare to congratulate her on the 
 success of her ball, and seemed glad to hear that she 
 was going away to Claremont House for rest. 
 
 " Good-bye, Lewis." 
 
 " Good-bye, Lucy ; but I shall see you in a few days," 
 he answered. 
 
 And she left him, wondering at his perfidy; leaving 
 him to return to the Vale, to wonder at his good fortune. 
 He was now free! 
 
 CHAP. XXIX. 
 
 SHE did not speak to Lewis about the kiss she had seen 
 him exchange with Helen on the staircase, when he called 
 at Carlton House Terrace, and she did not ask him to 
 come to Claremont House, but just mentioned that she 
 was going to the country for some days. 
 
 He received this welcome piece of news with an un- 
 moved countenance, and hoping to see her when she re- 
 turned, left her congratulating himself on his good-for- 
 tune, for he was free to spend whole days with Helen — 
 only his painting interfered with his love-making ; and one 
 day, unable to endure his sitters, he put them off on the 
 
189 
 
 ground of ill health, and went away with Helen on a coach- 
 ing excursion to Dorking. They were never alone, it is 
 true, but they had enjoyed together a long day of twelve 
 hours of sunshine, from ten till ten; and feeling that she 
 deserved reproaches for her contumacy, she fled upstairs 
 to her room. Very soon, however, the expected inquiry 
 came. Did her ladyship require any dinner ? The answer 
 she gave the servant was that she did not need dinner; a 
 cup of chocolate was all she required; might she have 
 one brought up to her room? The maid retired, and 
 returned with the message that his lordship and her lady- 
 ship would be glad if Lady Helen would come to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " I shall be asked with whom I have been spending the 
 day," she said to herself as she arranged her hair, " but 
 there must be no more wrangles on this subject or any 
 other concerning me," she added as she turned the handle 
 of the dining-room door. 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to tell us where you have 
 spent the day? " the inquiry began; and she answered 
 her father that she had expected that question, and that 
 it had been put to her many times before, and that she 
 had come to think that she had already made it suffi- 
 ciently plain that she intended to live her life in her 
 own fashion. And at this declaration her father asked 
 if she would be kind enough to give them some idea as 
 to the measure of the nonconformity they might expect 
 to have to endure — was not even the dinner hour to be 
 respected? And he turned to his wife, and Lady Gran- 
 derville interposed with some plaintive admonitions that 
 Helen would be sorry sooner or later for her conduct, 
 which not only would do much harm to herself, but would 
 also prejudice her father in the eyes of Her Majesty, the 
 lady to whom all transgressions of the kind were abhor- 
 rent, and whose life was blameless. 
 
 Lord Granderville asked his daughter if she proposed 
 
190 
 
 to marry Mr. Seymour, and she answered wearily that 
 she did not know, and begged her parents to forego the 
 discussion, at least till to-morrow morning, for she was 
 very tired. 
 
 " My chocolate is getting cold," she said, passing out 
 of the room quickly to avoid further discussion. " But 
 it isn't quite cold," she said, when she got upstairs. " I 
 shall enjoy it more when I get out of my stays and into 
 a tea-gown. How beautiful London is in the twilight," 
 she said, and in the summer dusk she sat sipping her 
 chocolate, thinking of the delightful day she had spent 
 with Lewis on the coach and strolling with him along the 
 hillside in front of the great expanse of country, talking 
 of things that she had always wished to talk about: 
 about Rossetti in principal; his poetry and his pictures 
 both interested her, both had been an influence in her 
 life for many years, but nobody she had met knew any- 
 thing about Rossetti or wished to see his pictures or to 
 read him. Lewis was the first man she had met who 
 knew Rossetti's pictures and could talk about them, and 
 trying to reknit herself to her recollections of him and the 
 many vital things he had said, she lamented that her 
 father and mother had ordered her to come down to the 
 drawing-room for reproval. If there must needs be an- 
 other wrangle it would have been better to have chosen 
 another moment. She could have listened to her father 
 more respectfully after breakfast; on the top of her hap- 
 piness she could not. Her father had spoilt everything; 
 after that scene she couldn't pick up the thread of her 
 memories. " Happiness is but a cobweb," she said, " an 
 angry hand destroys it in a moment,'' and pouring out 
 what remained in the jug, she drank it and began to 
 undress, hoping that as she lay between sleeping and 
 waking she would be able to disassociate herself from 
 the house she was in. She regretted the Vale. If she 
 had spent the night out, her father could not have said 
 
191 
 
 more than he did, and she began to think that the ques- 
 tion whether her life belonged to herself or to her father 
 and mother would have to be settled. The sooner this 
 question was settled, the better for all of them. For ten 
 years she had lived in different countries, speaking to 
 people with whom she had not a thought in common, 
 striving to entertain them for her father's benefit. All 
 he thought of was his chances of going to Paris as an 
 Ambassador. She would like to live in Paris, but not in 
 an embassy. Of embassies she had had enough and 
 more than enough. " Disgraced," she cried out, " be- 
 cause I have been out coaching with Lewis Seymour! 
 To go out with a man alone is disgrace, in my father's 
 eyes, and in mother's — I don't know that mother trou- 
 bles much. Whereas to my mind it is disgraceful to 
 accept any opinions but one's own." She slept lightly, 
 and awoke thinking that she was married to different 
 men. In one dream it was a Russian, in another it was 
 a German, and in every case she was glad to find she 
 had only been dreaming: she was still free; that last 
 calamity, marriage, had not befallen her — to be married 
 to somebody whose life she would have to adopt was 
 what she dreaded. She dozed once more, and from this 
 doze the thought awoke her that she had been a virgin 
 long enough. " How silly it all is ! " she cried, sitting 
 up in bed. . . . And how incomplete ! Now, why ? For 
 the first time she felt like a fool, and when the summer 
 dawn divided the window-curtains, she cried out in bitter 
 rage : " Ten years of my life have been wasted, but every 
 hour of it henceforth shall be employed upon myself, 
 upon myself alone; enough of my life has been given to 
 others." She dozed again, awaking before the servant's 
 footsteps were heard on the stairs. " My life in this 
 house has ended " ; and slipping out of her bed she went 
 to her writing-table and wrote a note to her father, say- 
 ing that she was leaving London for a few days and would 
 
192 
 
 write to him again about her intentions. She wasn't 
 quite sure but her next letter might contain an announce- 
 ment of her marriage. This done, she began to pack a 
 small trunk, something that she thought she could carry 
 downstairs, throwing into it the barest necessaries: some 
 diaphanous chemises and nightgowns, drawers and fine 
 laces; the soft things she needed — silk stockings and 
 delicate shoes. " For we shall not do much tramping 
 about the country," she said to herself, gathering some 
 phials, enamel boxes, and brushes from her dressing- 
 table. " I can only take with me one complete change 
 in this trunk ! A second hat seems inevitable " ; and a 
 scarf of singularly delicate material embroidered with a 
 rare pattern struck her as something that Lewis might 
 like to paint. " But how shall I manage ? This small 
 trunk I can carry down myself, but the bandbox and 
 dressing-case ? It will be better to wait until the servants 
 are about. The first is the kitchenmaid; she will help 
 me. Now I must finish dressing. But my bath? " She 
 passed her arms into a wrapper and returned to her room 
 five minutes after, for it was now close on seven o'clock, 
 and the servants would be about very soon. 
 
 " The best thing will be to go away about eight o'clock, 
 leaving messages with the butler and footman just as if 
 my departure had been arranged for. There will be less 
 talk than if I were to sneak out of the house without 
 saying a word. . . ." 
 
 The footsteps she heard were the kitchenmaid's. " Do 
 you carry this trunk for me," she said. The girl ran 
 to the cabstand and returned in a hansom. The trunk 
 was hoisted on top, Helen and the bandbox went inside. 
 
 " How long will it take you to drive to the Vale, 
 Chelsea?" 
 
 " About half an hour, miss," the cabby cried through 
 the trap in the roof of the cab, " but I can hurry my 
 horse up a bit, if you're pressed for time." 
 
193 
 
 " There is no hurry," she answered, and her thoughts 
 melted into reveries. Lewis would be turning out of bed 
 when she arrived. But on hearing she was waiting in the 
 studio, he would hasten his sponging. He might be so 
 anxious to see her that he might come in apologising 
 for his dressing-gown, and she thought she would like to 
 see him in a dressing-gown and slippers, but the news she 
 received was unexpected. " Mr. Seymour is still in bed," 
 the parlour-maid said, " but I'll wake him. He'll not be 
 long, your ladyship." 
 
 " Ask Mr. Seymour if I may come up to his bedroom, 
 for I have to speak to him of matters of some importance," 
 she replied, and a few minutes afterwards the parlour- 
 maid took her upstairs ; and as soon as the door had closed 
 she burst out laughing, so comical did the situation appear 
 to her: Lewis lying in bed, and she standing at the foot 
 of the bed looking at him. After a while she asked him if 
 he were not glad to see her, and he answered that of 
 course he was glad, but would be able to appreciate her 
 visit more as soon as he knew that no catastrophe had 
 fallen or was imminent. 
 
 " Catastrophe, Lewis ? " 
 
 " Well, dear," he answered, " the message that Teresa 
 brought up to me was that you wished to speak to me on 
 a matter of importance, one that admitted of no delay." 
 
 " A catastrophe it certainly is," she said, " but whether 
 pleasant or unpleasant depends upon your humour. I 
 fancy you will find it pleasant — at least, there is a good 
 deal to be said for it. I have come to tell you, Lewis, 
 that we must go away together." 
 
 " That is pleasant news, indeed," he cried, but was 
 taken aback when he was told there was to be no delay. 
 To his question "Whither should they fly? " he was told 
 that Helen had in mind a villa at Twickenham. Why 
 Twickenham she did not know, nor could she tell him to 
 which villa they were going, and Lewis gathered that she 
 
194 
 
 had in mind large drawing-rooms overflowing with pale 
 furniture, and gardens and swards shelving to the water's 
 edge. 
 
 " But we shall marry," he cried. 
 
 " Yes, we will marry," she answered ..." ulti- 
 mately " ; and she related her life, till at last, feeling 
 that the story was being prolonged unduly, she said: 
 " Lewis, you must dress yourself. I'll give you ten min- 
 utes for a bath, and half an hour to put on your clothes, 
 and when they are on, you will please to ring, and I will 
 come upstairs and talk to you while you are shaving. 
 Will you allow me to order breakfast? " 
 
 " Of course " ; and having kissed her, he applied him- 
 self to his bath, thinking the while of the adventurous 
 girl he had fallen in with. Yet not altogether a feather- 
 headed girl, such a one as would wreck a man's life. . . . 
 He must insist on marriage; but marriage without notice 
 was impossible, even in a registry office. He dried and 
 powdered himself with care, and sought for becoming 
 clothes, for whatever happened he was going to spend the 
 day with his betrothed. " Whatever happens now," he 
 said to himself, " I shall have to accept ; there is no con- 
 trolling this woman, who would talk to me while I 
 shaved," he added. " What a genius for intimacy ! " He 
 rang the bell. " My dear Helen, you spoke of Twicken- 
 ham, but are you sure there is a hotel there? " 
 
 " It doesn't matter," she answered, somewhat testily; 
 " we shall hire a villa." 
 
 "And sleep," Lewis said, "under the same roof?" 
 
 " In the same bed, I hope," Helen answered. 
 
 " But if we cannot get the villa? " 
 
 " Then we shall go to the hotel. There is always the 
 Star and Garter waiting for us, darling. You are the 
 star and I am the garter, dear: could anything be more 
 providential? " 
 
 " You are more than a garter, Helen." 
 
195 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I am, but for the moment I think I 
 would like to be the garter." 
 
 Her wit gave him courage, and he looked upon himself 
 as her husband already, with a delicious adventure in 
 front of him. 
 
 " An hotel," he said, " will be a sad descent from the 
 riverside villa." 
 
 " Lewis, for the next fortnight you must promise me 
 not to grumble, but to bear all that may befall you 
 joyfully. Now, if you're ready, we'll go down to break- 
 fast. Aren't you glad, Lewis, to see me pouring out the 
 coffee and attending on you just as if I were your wife? " 
 
 " But you will be my wife to-morrow." 
 
 " We may have something else to do to-morrow. But 
 why think, Lewis? Why not enjoy things as they go 
 by? Only women seem to have that faculty. Men are 
 always thinking. Shall we go into the garden or shall 
 I sit for you? " 
 
 He began a sketch, but his mind was not on what he 
 was doing. " I cannot draw to-day," he said, and tore 
 up the drawing. " Let us go and inquire for villas " ; 
 and jumping into a hansom they drove from house-agent 
 to house-agent. But none had a villa on his books that 
 could be transferred to them during the course of the 
 afternoon. " An inventory is necessary," the house-agent 
 said, " and the references you give, though I'm sure 
 they are entirely satisfactory, will have to be inquired 
 into." While the house-agent was saying these words a 
 tall, energetic old lady, in black silk, who had just come 
 into the office, said: " I have come here to arrange for the 
 letting of my villa at Twickenham. It might suit you." 
 Whereupon the house-agent that was attending on the 
 tall upright figure in black silk came forward, and the 
 inventory was again alluded to, but Lewis declared that 
 he would accept the inventory, and as he was an artist 
 and liked beautiful things, it was extremely unlikely that 
 
196 
 
 misfortunes would occur to a piece of china or to a 
 picture. 
 
 " I don't think, madam," he said, " that you will find 
 that coffee has been spilt over your sofas or on your 
 arm-chairs, and if coffee be spilt, I shall have to pay 
 for the recovering of that piece of furniture." 
 
 She answered that these conditions seemed to her to be 
 fair, and that Mr. Lewis Seymour's position in the art 
 world was a sufficient reference so far as she was con- 
 cerned. The house-agent bowed acquiescence, saying that 
 all things being agreeable to all parties, they might look 
 upon the matter as settled. Lewis and Helen began to 
 think that Fortune was still fighting their battles, but 
 at the last moment the old lady cried out : " But it is 
 impossible for you to enter into possession this evening " ; 
 and Helen and Lewis returned crestfallen from the door- 
 way. " My parrot is still there." 
 
 " But we shall be very glad to have a parrot," Lewis 
 said, smiling. 
 
 " If you knew more about my bird, I'm afraid that 
 you wouldn't say so. He is an extremely jealous bird, 
 and will fly at anybody who comes near me." 
 
 " But you will not be there, so the parrot's jealousy 
 will not be excited." 
 
 " He'll not take food from anybody but me, only when 
 I am away will he allow my maid to feed him, and when 
 I return he'll fly at her. Only the other day he tore 
 the cap off her head. An ungrateful bird, I admit, but 
 a wonderful bird." 
 
 " We'll keep your maid to look after the bird and the 
 furniture." The lady looked from Lewis to Helen and 
 thought she had never seen a handsomer pair. 
 
 " You will not tease my bird ? " she said in a sudden 
 burst of intimacy, and Lewis answered that she would 
 have no fault to find with lier tenantry. " Five-and- 
 
197 
 
 twenty pounds a week for a month, payable in advance " ; 
 and the old lady, astonished at this generous offer, for 
 she would have let her villa for fifteen pounds, signed the 
 agreement. 
 
 " And now," Lewis said, " will you be kind enough to 
 telegraph to your maid that she may expect us for din- 
 ner ? " and from the house in the Vale Lady Helen wrote 
 another letter to her father. 
 
 They had tea together, and after tea Lewis packed some 
 summer suits and jerseys. 
 
 " A hansom," he said, " can take us and our luggage, 
 and it'll be a pleasant drive there." 
 
 Lady Helen was of the same mind, and with two small 
 trunks on the top and a bandbox between their legs, they 
 drove away, seeing London declining into long streets of 
 two-storied houses about Hammersmith, but as soon as the 
 river was crossed, they came upon villas standing in the 
 midst of tall trees. After tennis-grounds and flower- 
 vases the country opened up into fields in which haymak- 
 ing was in progress. Clouds unfolded in a blue sky, birds 
 flew from wood to wood, while the lovers dreamed of the 
 happiness that awaited them. " One long month of happi- 
 ness for certain," Lewis said, " unless, indeed, your 
 father and mother come down and snatch you away from 
 me." 
 
 " But how could they do that ? " Helen answered. 
 " Am I not my own mistress ? If a woman can't choose 
 her life at seven-and-twenty, then she is a slave to the 
 end of her days, without the right of self-judgment." 
 
 " But if your father should come and find us still 
 unmarried? Don't you think, Helen, it would be better 
 to . . ." 
 
 " No, Lewis, I do not. We shall be married one of 
 these days. One morning I shall say to you, ' Now, 
 Lewis, don't you think that this is a suitable morning for 
 
198 
 
 us to go to church?' More than that I cannot say; 
 not at present." 
 
 " The banns will have to be published," Lewis mut- 
 tered. 
 
 " I'm going to have this adventure according to my 
 fancy. God only knows I've waited long enough for the 
 adventure of my fancy " ; and Lewis, feeling unable to 
 control her whim, abandoned himself altogether to it, 
 and a pleasant silence fell, bringing them into intense 
 consciousness of each other; and feeling for each other's 
 hands, they followed the landscape, expecting the river 
 to appear at every moment. 
 
 " There's a sensation of water in the air," Lewis said, 
 and it was about half a mile on the other side of the 
 village that the hansom turned into a yellow gate on 
 which was written " The Willows," the drive proceeding 
 into what seemed to be a little wooded domain. It stopped 
 in front of a gabled house, out of which came a maid- 
 servant of comely aspect, accompanied by a page boy, 
 into whose charge the maid confided the luggage. 
 
 " That twelve-and-sixpence," Helen said, " carries us 
 into a new life " ; and wondering at her audacious mind, 
 Lewis followed her into a villa, larger, more commodious, 
 and pleasanter than they had hoped for; and the maid- 
 servant, pleased at their commendations of the large airy 
 saloons, draped with grey curtained windows, invited them 
 to admire the greensward. The maid-servant said that 
 Mrs. Cartwright set great store on her china and pictures, 
 and the lovers accepted the maid's words as admonitions, 
 and passed into their bedroom, which, of course, for them 
 was a matter of special interest. 
 
 " This is Mrs. Cartwright's bedroom — the one, I sup- 
 pose, you will occupy; and this is the bathroom Mrs. Cart- 
 wright put in only a year ago. The dining-room is at the 
 other end of the house." And through airy and pleasingly 
 
199 
 
 coloured saloons they followed the comely maid, thinking 
 how the days would pass with books and music, coming in 
 from walks and going out for walks together. 
 
 " And there is the parrot ! " Helen exclaimed. 
 
 The maid stopped, surprised. 
 
 "Mrs. Cartwright has told you about Polly?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed,'' Lady Helen answered — " that he hates 
 everybody but his mistress." 
 
 " Which is quite true, ma'am. He is very fond of tea 
 and coffee and cocoa, but before Mrs. Cartwright went 
 away, whenever I offered him a spoonful he would take 
 the spoon and tip the tea or coffee out, just to show 
 how much he disliked me. But all the time Mrs. Cart- 
 wright was away he took everything I gave him, and 
 came to me when I called him, and on Mrs. Cartwright's 
 return I said : ' I think that Polly has quite taken to me 
 since you've been away, ma'am,' and went to the cage 
 to show her how she would come to me, but the moment 
 I put in my finger ungrateful Polly tried to snatch it. 
 Now, you see how she rolls her eyes when Mr. Seymour 
 comes near the cage? What a rage she is in! And if she 
 could get out, she'd fly at him just as she flew at me. 
 She tore the cap off my head, and a great piece of hair 
 came with it." 
 
 As soon as Lewis retired from the cage the bird's anger 
 ceased, and climbing up her cage she put out her neck 
 for Helen to stroke her. 
 
 " Well, I never ! She's taken to you at once, ma'am. 
 A thing I've never seen her do before." 
 
 They talked a little while longer of the whims and 
 caprices that parrots were subject to, especially the 
 green sort. " She speaks very well for a green bird," 
 the maid said. 
 
 " The green are much more savage than the grey," 
 Lewis said, " and the, grey are better speakers and 
 
200 
 
 much more beautiful in colour — grey and red, a much 
 prettier bird to paint." 
 
 " You'd like to see the dining-room, sir ? " They mur- 
 mured their satisfaction. 
 
 " We shan't have many visitors," Helen said to the 
 maid, returning to the parrot, who seemed overjoyed to 
 have her back again. 
 
 " I declare, ma'am. She loves you better than the 
 mistress." 
 
 Lewis thought this a good opportunity to tell Kate that 
 his wife was Lady Helen Seymour, to which Kate an- 
 swered: " I beg pardon, sir, but I didn't know the lady's 
 name; and if her ladyship would like to tell me about 
 the dinner, I'll send up to the village for a chicken." 
 
 " That will do excellently, but we are easily fed, Kate," 
 Lewis answered. " And when will the chicken be 
 ready? " 
 
 " In an hour, sir; you will have just time to dress for 
 dinner." 
 
 Whereupon the lovers returned to their rooms, Lady 
 Helen saying that she would like to get into a tea-gown. 
 " And after dinner we shall see if the parrot will take 
 food from me." 
 
 " Well, isn't it wonderful that we should be here 
 alone? How things have worked out! How well you 
 have managed it ! " he said. " Here we're dressing for 
 dinner in front of each other." And they went out to 
 dinner together, Lewis whispering: " Don't you think I 
 did well to mention your name? We are going to be 
 married." 
 
 " Yes, Lewis, we are," she said, " on the first opportu- 
 nity "; and laughing gaily they sat down to dinner, Lady 
 Helen speaking of the parrot, to whom she took over fruit 
 from time to time. 
 
 " I never should have believed it possible," Kate said, 
 
201 
 
 " if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but I wouldn't 
 advise your ladyship to make too free with Polly yet, for 
 those birds are very artful and inconstant." 
 
 " But somehow I feel quite safe with her " ; and when 
 dinner was over she repeated the phrase, saying, " I feel 
 quite safe with her," and went towards the cage. 
 
 " My dear Helen, if on such a night as this the bird 
 should take a piece out of your cheek! I beg of you, I 
 beseech you, I implore you." 
 
 But Lady Helen would not be gainsaid; and as soon 
 as she opened the door of the cage the parrot came out, 
 perched on to her finger, and climbed up her arm on to 
 her shoulder, and proud of her conquest Helen walked 
 about. 
 
 But the Polly could not bear any attempt to come be- 
 tween her and the object of her affections, and when 
 Lewis approached Lady Helen, Polly at once began to 
 roll her eyes, to scream, and put up her feathers. 
 
 " Don't come near me, Lewis ; you are agitating the 
 bird," she said. But Lewis, forgetful that parrots have 
 wings and can fly, began to feel a little jealous of Polly, 
 and would have liked to put her back into the cage; but 
 the moment he attempted to approach Lady Helen the 
 bird prepared to attack him, and so savage was her 
 demeanour, that Lewis thought it wiser to retreat. But 
 this wasn't enough for the parrot: she flew after Lewis, 
 who was walking in a different direction, and Lady 
 Helen's cry and the parrot's claws and beak were a simul- 
 taneous intimation of the assault. Polly's beak was iri 
 Lewis's ear, causing him considerable pain, and he might 
 have lost a piece of the ear if Lady Helen had not ran 
 forward at once. At her approach Polly seemed to for- 
 get Lewis altogether, and from the harsh notes her voice 
 fell into a soft cooing, and she allowed herself to be 
 put back into her cage. 
 
202 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 
 NEXT morning Lewis and Helen were awakened out 
 of deep sleep by the sound of women's voices, and sitting 
 up in bed they listened. 
 
 " What can all this screaming be about ? " Lewis asked, 
 and slipping out of bed, he opened the door. " I believe," 
 he said, " that they have let the parrot out of the cage 
 and are trying to get her back into it." Kate cried 
 to him to shut the door, but she cried out too late, 
 and a moment afterwards the bird came flopping 
 through it and settled herself at once on the pillow beside 
 Helen. 
 
 " We are so sorry, sir ; and it isn't my fault. The 
 kitchenmaid, while I was dusting the chimney-piece, 
 opened the door to take out the tray and forgot to 
 close it." 
 
 " Well, the bird is in our bedroom now," he answered. 
 
 " Would you like me to come and try to get her back 
 into her cage, sir? " 
 
 " I'm afraid she wouldn't let you," Lewis answered, 
 and his eyes went to the bird, who had perched herself 
 on Helen's shoulder, and was now rubbing her head caress- 
 ingly against her cheek. " She seems to be as fond of you 
 as I am, and has ousted me from your bed." 
 
 Helen offered to carry her back to her cage, but Lewis 
 said he had slept enough; and arming himself with a 
 towel, said, " I will go to the bathroom, dear, and per- 
 haps when I come back dressed " — he stopped to watch 
 the bird put her great horny beak into Helen's mouth 
 — " I'd like to do a drawing, and will bring in the sketch- 
 book." 
 
 While he was bathing, Helen, to make Polly more com- 
 fortable, drew forward a high-backed arm-chair, inviting 
 Polly to perch upon it, which the bird did, obedient to 
 
203 
 
 her every wish. Polly cooed and extended her head for 
 caresses, and she went through her entire repertoire of 
 phrases for Helen's entertainment. A curious scene it 
 was when Lewis returned: Polly was giving all her at- 
 tention to Helen. " Trying," Lewis said, " to learn new 
 words and phrases," as if she only cared for those she 
 could learn from Helen. " If I were only sure the bird 
 wouldn't attack me." 
 
 " The bird will not interfere with you, Lewis, so long 
 as you don't come near me. But she is clearly very jeal- 
 ous, and can only have one love at a time, and will not 
 suffer any rivalry, so keep away." 
 
 The last remark did not altogether please Lewis, but 
 his mind was bent upon his drawing, for he had seen a 
 pose that captured him: Helen raising herself up to the 
 bird — a pretty movement, almost a nude, for the morning 
 being very hot, the last sheet had been kicked aside. 
 
 " How is your drawing going? " Helen asked, and 
 Lewis replied, " Very well indeed. But can you keep 
 the pose a little longer? " 
 
 " Well, a little longer," she said ; " all my weight is 
 on my right arm." 
 
 Lewis hurried to get down the main lines of his draw- 
 ing, and when Helen said, " I really cannot bear 
 the pose any longer," he answered that after break- 
 fast he would be glad if she would give him another 
 sitting. 
 
 " And now, Polly, I must really dress myself," she 
 said, twisting her legs over the bedside ; and taking Polly 
 in her hands, she took her to her cage and went into the 
 bathroom, appearing some twenty minutes afterwards in 
 a tea-gown. 
 
 " You said you'd like me to take the pose afterwards, 
 so I haven't made any considerable change in my toilet. 
 But, darling, I haven't asked you to show me your draw- 
 ing." 
 
204 
 
 Lewis opened his sketch-book, and they hung over it 
 together, admiring, criticising it till beguiled from it by 
 the savoury smell of kidneys and bacon. They seated 
 themselves at the breakfast table. Kate had baked some 
 cakes for them which they liked exceedingly, and the 
 coffee was strong, the marmalade excellent, and in a 
 happy digestion they rose from the table and stood by 
 the open window, their feet tempted by the greensward 
 and by the shady alley leading no doubt to the water's 
 edge. Both were anxious to explore, to investigate and 
 admire their little domain — -a month's domain, for by the 
 end of the month it seemed to them that they must return 
 to town. Lewis had pictures to paint, but for a month 
 they would be all alone with the books, the views, and 
 the sketch-books. 
 
 " And a vicious parrot," Lewis said. " A bird that 
 threatens to monopolise you, darling. My first rival ; will 
 there be any others ? " 
 
 Helen did not answer as he expected she would — 
 " There can never be anybody but you " — she merely 
 turned the conversation, saying that she was tempted to 
 walk out. " But you see, dear, I've only slippers on, 
 silk stockings, a chemise and a dressing-gown. You see, 
 I'm nearly undressed. You want me to go back to bed 
 for you to finish your drawing." 
 
 Lewis admitted that he would like to have another 
 half-hour's sitting, but he, too, was captured by the scents 
 that came up from the flowers, and the hum of the bees 
 seeking honey from larkspur to hollyhock. 
 
 " How strong and sweetly the stocks smell ! " she said. 
 " I think we might go a little way." 
 
 " Yes, let us go a little way and talk to the gardener 
 yonder. There may be a boat-house, and the air is so 
 pleasant in the shady alley, and you are so pleasant to 
 walk with," he said, conscious of the presence of her 
 body under the long blue tea-gown. 
 
205 
 
 The alley they were in was shaded by willows on 
 one side and by an occasional elm on the other, a 
 pleasant path extending one whole reach of the Thames. 
 It seemed commonplace to her to say that it was exquisite 
 to walk in this fresh morning air by the river after a 
 love night. Yet the words were on their lips — on his, 
 perhaps, more often than hers, for she was more content 
 than he was to enjoy without speech. He would have 
 liked her to speak, for not to speak seemed to him a little 
 cynical. That was the one fault he had to find with 
 Helen. She yielded her body, but not her soul — at least, 
 not as completely as he had expected she would, as other 
 women had. And presently she seemed to him unduly 
 loquacious with the gardener, asking for tiresome in- 
 formation about the strawberries that were over, and the 
 peaches that were ripening. Was it not enough to know 
 that he would send in some peaches? Of what concern 
 of theirs was it to learn the precise relationship of the 
 peach to the nectarine? The gardener was anxious to 
 conduct them through his garden to show them some car- 
 nations — a new flower of his own invention — and Helen 
 would have followed him, but Lewis said : " Somebody 
 is always stealing you from me. It began early in the 
 morning with the parrot, now it is the gardener." 
 
 A change came into her face, and they turned back 
 into the shade of the alley, the sun being uncomfortably 
 hot in the open. Half its length was traversed without 
 speaking, till, breaking the silence suddenly, Lewis said 
 that a new idea for a picture had just come to him, and 
 his idea was that Polly might conceive the idea of rob- 
 bing Helen of her nightgown : " Stepping from her 
 perch, the bird might be dragging at your nightgown as 
 if he liked you better without it. Another version of 
 Fragonard: 'La Chemise Volee.' " 
 
 " But Polly," Helen said, " unlike you, loves me for 
 
206 
 
 myself. I'm as much to Polly dressed, as I am un- 
 dressed." 
 
 "And is it not the same with me?" Lewis asked. 
 Helen was not sure. 
 
 " If I weren't of an appearance that pleased you " 
 
 " But it is your appearance that attracted the bird. 
 Polly can know nothing of your intellectual or moral 
 qualities." 
 
 " It is just because Polly knows nothing of my intel- 
 lectual and moral qualities that her love is deeper than 
 any human love can be. All that Polly knows of me is 
 the elemental substance — that which a musician ex- 
 presses, if he have genius." 
 
 " Polly,' - he objected, " looks to you for food." 
 
 " You heard Kate say that Polly will take food only 
 from those she loves; even the tempting spoonful of 
 cocoa she'll upset if the hand that presents it be not 
 agreeable to her." 
 
 " But how quickly Polly changes her affection ; her 
 mistress is already forgotten." 
 
 " It would seem to me," Helen answered, " that is 
 another reason for my belief in the fundamental nature 
 of an animal's love. Polly lives in the present, free 
 from recollection, and undisturbed with hope of a future. 
 The actual moment is the only moment. Her love is 
 undivided, but yours " 
 
 " And yours ? Is it altogether divorced from mem- 
 ory and imaginations that outstrip reality? " he inter- 
 jected. 
 
 " Perhaps I should have said man's," she replied. 
 " We are considering love in the abstract. Let us detach 
 ourselves from our circumstances, and see ourselves a 
 little as God sees us." 
 
 " How does God see us? " he asked. 
 
 " He would begin by recognising the fact that Polly 
 does not see in me the making of a picture." 
 
207 
 
 " Therefore Polly does not appreciate you as I do," 
 he replied. " She doesn't discriminate. She merely 
 loves. So in your view, then, the artist is the most im- 
 perfect of all lovers? " 
 
 " Necessarily," she said, " for he sees beyond the 
 woman. Perhaps the perfect lover will never be found 
 in reasonable man. Now I come to think of it, there 
 would be a better chance of finding him in the unreason- 
 able " ; and laughing at her own thoughts, she began to 
 tell of a friend of hers, a disillusioned woman who had 
 fled from London to a lonely country-house, stored with 
 books, music, pictures, with all things that appertain to 
 art, and how while gazing on some marble, or twanging 
 an old-time melody on the cithern, she was startled from 
 her sad reverie by a man crashing through the sky-light 
 of her studio. As she was about to ring for help, the 
 sudden intruder rose to his feet, and begged of her not 
 to summon her servants. He was not hurt. " But the 
 shock? " she said. " A mere nothing," he replied. " I'm 
 used to worse shocks than the last "; and, sitting by her 
 side, he told her how he had determined to discover the 
 one woman who could give him perfect love, and had 
 sought her all over the world, through the East and in 
 deepest Africa. He had even ventured as far as the 
 North and South Poles in search of the one human soul 
 and body decreed to him from all eternity. " Without 
 finding her ? " she said. " Without finding her," he an- 
 swered, and when they looked into each other's eyes it 
 seemed to them that the great lovers of all time had 
 met at last. And so that he might appreciate her as she 
 appreciated him, she poured into his ears a moving ac- 
 count of her flight from London, and how she had hoped 
 to obtain forgetfulness in art of one who had not proved 
 as perfect in love as he had once seemed to be. No 
 more words were spoken. Words were lost in the con- 
 viction that each had discovered Elysium in the other, 
 
208 
 
 and for a week each lived absorbed in the other till 
 keepers from a neighbourhood lunatic asylum arrived 
 with handcuffs. " A dangerous madman/' they told the 
 lady, and congratulated her on her escape, as they got 
 their prisoner into the carriage. 
 
 " A very unfeeling story," Lewis exclaimed, " one 
 strangely unsuitable for a honeymoon,'' he muttered, 
 and his thoughts went back to Lucy, to her sweet kindly 
 nature, and he remembered with a pang that he abandoned 
 her for one who, though she had lain in his arms all night, 
 seemed further from him than any other woman he had 
 ever known. Maybe that was why he took her in his 
 arms again and kissed her passionately. 
 
 " Helen, darling, why did you tell me that story ? Am 
 I a madman? " 
 
 " My dear Lewis, you take things so seriously; all 
 great passions are allied to madness. You're a madman 
 in your art and in your love "; and not knowing what to 
 make of her, he began thinking of his art. 
 
 But she knew how to uncreate the mood that she had 
 created in him, and the suggestion that they might sit 
 together on a bench melted it nearly away; Lucy was 
 again forgotten in the course of the conversation that 
 ensued regarding the drawing he had begun, and in the 
 questions that she adroitly put to him, whether her figure 
 would be of use to him; whether he could paint from her 
 better than from any other model he had seen, even the 
 French models. 
 
 " But no figure that I have ever seen is as perfect as 
 yours." 
 
 " But there are imperfections? " she said. " Am I not 
 too thin in the arms ? " and he answered that there were 
 certain thinnesses in the shoulder-blades, but if these were 
 filled in she would lose a great deal in character, though 
 she might gain a little in beauty. " Your shoulders are 
 
209 
 
 beautifully shaped, as beautiful as any, and your breasts 
 are small." 
 
 "Too small?" 
 
 " Breasts are never too small. Your breasts are good," 
 he said. 
 
 " But you have seen better ? " she answered. 
 
 " It would not be true to say that I have seen better. 
 I may have seen breasts as shapely, but in an artist's eyes 
 the gift of beautiful breasts is not the supreme gift. Beau- 
 tiful breasts are necessary; but it is not the beauty of 
 breasts that compels my wonder, but the belly when it is 
 beautiful, the low vault rising imperceptibly and in such 
 exact architecture that I think of Euclid. Either one is 
 crazed with the beauty of the human body or one has no 
 eyes for it, as some have no ears for music; but if one 
 sees it, what enchantment one gets from observing it, and 
 of all in a woman like you. Were it my fate to see you 
 borne away by angels, the spring of your hips would be 
 before me always, and the smooth thighs that support the 
 body, the small knees of such simple form " 
 
 " Why are my knees simple ? " she asked. 
 
 " Because," he answered, " they are free from un- 
 necessary detail. In you there are no broken lines. The 
 line undulates from the hip to the ankle, simple in its 
 variety. Your feet are miracles; long and narrow, the 
 second toe longer than the big toe, as it always is in 
 statues, but never in common nature. Your head is in 
 keeping with your figure. A small rounded head crowned 
 with gold. There is a Greek marble like you by Lysip- 
 pus, I think, one of the late Greek sculptors before art 
 fell into decadence. His Venus had no more hips than 
 you. A Venus of pleasure rather than of maternity. It 
 was her belly that set me thinking of yours. The same 
 rhythms, the same proportions, the same navel, a gem 
 carved inward with cunning hand, and finely set." 
 
 " I've never thought much about my belly." 
 
210 
 
 "That was on account of the word!" he interjected. 
 
 " But when I look over my shoulder," she continued, 
 " my back seems shapely enough." 
 
 " Lysippus must have foreseen your back," he said. 
 
 " My back, perhaps ; but my arms and shoulders are 
 scraggy, aren't they? " 
 
 " Not scraggy, but delicate in their thinness, which is 
 quite different." And he swore to her that he would 
 not have her arms otherwise than as they were; nor her 
 hands, though her hands were not as distinguished as 
 her feet; still, there were beautiful lines in them. 
 
 " It is pleasant," she said, " to hear how others see 
 us, but in a quiet alley like this by the river-side one 
 should be thinking of the round spots of light on the 
 pathway and the twittering of the birds in the leaves 
 rather than of bellies. Listen ! That bird has a dear 
 little song. Do you know what bird it is ? " 
 
 Lewis thought it was a willow wren, and Helen re- 
 proved the answer, which she said was casual. A man 
 with so keen an interest in anatomical subjects could 
 only be faintly interested in bird-life. " You see wil- 
 lows, and you hear a bird, and have read of willow 
 wrens, but you can't tell me if the bird has a long or a 
 
 short tail. You are thinking of Modesty forbids me 
 
 to say of what you are thinking." 
 
 " All that I told you," he said, " of your figure was 
 the artist's appreciation of it, but had I known that you 
 desired to hear the lover's, I should have gratified you, 
 imitating a lunatic, your ideal lover." 
 
 She had to pacify him. 
 
 " You are curious to know of what I was thinking 
 when you asked the name of the bird; I will tell you. 
 I was thinking of the quiet, moist atmosphere of this 
 river-side lawn, and of a picture of you emerging from 
 the screening willows, a bather, one foot on the low 
 bank, supporting herself, one hand on a willow branch." 
 
211 
 
 " The light changes in the open air," she said, and he 
 answered that it did, except on grey days. But the art- 
 ist's difficulties were not limited to a changing light. To 
 render the woman attractive it would be necessary that 
 she should be well within the picture. " There must be 
 atmosphere between her and the spectator," he said, 
 " and to draw a naked woman is difficult, but to draw her 
 in the atmosphere is ten times more difficult." 
 
 " How interesting art is when one comes to under- 
 stand the difficulties with which the artist has to con- 
 tend," Lady Helen said; and during luncheon Lewis 
 began to talk more freely of his art, saying that modern 
 art was more personal than ancient — more journalistic. 
 The individual had no thought for himself in ancient 
 Egypt; he was only aware of himself as part of a com- 
 munity, and figs were probably sold in Memphis to a 
 ritual. Even the Greek artists sought the type much 
 more than the individual, and the secularisation of life 
 and art have continued till both life and art have be- 
 come incoherent zigzags, observing no order, obedient to 
 no rule. 
 
 Helen had never heard anyone sestheticise before, and 
 she at once became a listener whose intentness flattered 
 Lewis and beguiled him onward. That the Renaissance 
 owed a great deal to antiquity is one of the platitudes 
 of the critics, but Lewis did not know that any of the 
 critics had remarked that among the thousands of naked 
 women that have been painted in modern times it would 
 be difficult to discover six in which the artist had tried 
 to do more than to paint the individual woman before 
 his eyes. 
 
 " It is, indeed," he said, " a shameful admission that 
 from the fifteenth century onwards, down to the end of 
 the nineteenth, we cannot discover six figures, six pic- 
 tures or statues, that tell us that the human being is the 
 most beautiful thing in Nature. If men continue to 
 
212 
 
 paint naked women it is for the sake of their sex, not for 
 the sake of their beauty. Men, being merely men, are 
 never naked except in sculpture. Ingres and David," 
 he said, " were the last whose aim seems to have been 
 to represent the archetype, and as soon as Napoleon's 
 empire passed away painters turned their eyes from an- 
 tiquity, falling back into individualism of the Renais- 
 sance. For why? Because men were no longer prone 
 to see men and women in all their attributes of perfec- 
 tions, as a point in Nature around which all else re- 
 volves. Or it may be," he said, " that Nature no longer 
 produces the archetypal woman. Once I would have 
 accepted this explanation of the great change, but last 
 night has convinced me that Nature is the same as she 
 always was, producing great quantities of common stock 
 and occasionally a miracle, so that we may carry our 
 heads high." As soon as Helen had divested herself of 
 her chemise, he had seen in her Lysippus's Venus, only 
 more beautiful. " In some respects more beautiful in 
 the flesh than in the marble," he added; and he began to 
 tell Helen that she was in his eyes a resurrection of an- 
 cient beauty. Breaking off suddenly, he said : " Per- 
 haps you have found the realisation of your story in me. 
 I am mad in front of a well-proportioned rhythmical 
 belly, and am not ashamed of my madness." 
 
 Her eyes were filled with wonder, for she had not 
 heard these things before, and possessed by a great 
 curiosity to understand, she said : " But, Lewis, why 
 do you say that from the fifteenth century onwards 
 there are not six women in art that represent female 
 beauty?" 
 
 " I said, Helen, that there are not six in which the 
 artist attempted to tell more than he saw in the indi- 
 vidual, and I doubt if there be six. The first Venus is 
 Botticelli's, but she stands on a shell, if I remember 
 rightly. There may be some art-books here that will 
 
213 
 
 help us." And they admired the handsomely bound 
 books on the different tables. " Mrs. Cartwright seems 
 to be a woman of taste and culture," Lewis said; " and I 
 suppose Kate can give us the keys of these bookcases." 
 
 " Here is a Life of Botticelli, and his works," Helen 
 said. " And here are the works of Titian and Veronese 
 and of Tintoretto. We have everything we require for 
 the prosecution of our inquiry. Botticelli, you said, was 
 the first to paint Venus ? " 
 
 " Yes, he goes back to the fifteenth century, to the 
 end of the century. There was very little painting be- 
 fore the end of the fifteenth century, and he abandoned 
 painting, I believe, and became very pious." 
 
 " Was not everybody pious in those days ? " 
 
 " But, my dear Helen, the Renaissance was a revival 
 of Paganism," Lewis said ; " and here is the Venus we 
 are seeking, on page 124"; and turning the pages over 
 he came upon the " Birth of Venus." " ' The Birth of 
 Art,' it might be called " ; and they sat admiring the 
 figure standing timidly on the shell, that kind and benefi- 
 cent zephyrs are blowing onwards : " rising," Lewis 
 said, " out of the gulf of the Middle Ages. The first 
 blossom of the Renaissance comes to us hiding her sex 
 with a tress of hair. Not knowing how she will be re- 
 ceived, she comes timidly. She had heard of the monk, 
 Savonarola, the one that good Pope Alexander VI. 
 caused to be put to death along with his company, three 
 others of the same kidney. She doesn't know the treat- 
 ment that may be meted out to her. The monk may be 
 even now knotting the whip, a great thick whip, to 
 strike her across those dear little buttocks. A detestable 
 man was Savonarola, darling; he wanted to revive the 
 Middle Ages — the ages of faith, but the good Pope 
 burnt him." 
 
 Helen thought that she had never heard anyone speak 
 
214 
 
 more beautifully than Lewis, and she took pleasure in 
 the timid Venus on her voyage. 
 
 " Whether the idea was present in the painter's mind 
 we do not know, but, consciously or unconsciously, he 
 painted her afraid." 
 
 " Could it have been," she asked, " that Botticelli 
 saw that his Venus was the first? " 
 
 " The Renaissance was the return of life to the 
 world," Lewis answered. " Here we have his ' Spring- 
 tide ' " ; and Lewis pointed out to Helen three women, 
 " their hands raised and their fingers interlocked, pacing 
 to a rhythm, while behind them in the background is the 
 Spring herself, watchful, benign, and sad " 
 
 " Why sad ? " Helen asked. 
 
 And Lewis answered : " She is quick with child, and 
 whosoever is quick is sad; there is something of you, 
 Helen, in that mad figure in the spotted dress whom the 
 faun would embrace." 
 
 " Go on talking, Lewis ; I like to hear you " ; and, feel- 
 ing as if he were speaking out of an inspiration, he began 
 to tell how life had begun to return to the world in the 
 fifteenth century, and how Botticelli was the first har- 
 binger of the spring, saying that, just as the birds know 
 by instinct when the rain is about to fall, and when the 
 time has come to leave their summer haunts, Botticelli 
 seemed to have received premonitions of the spring that 
 was about to break upon the world. Be this as it may, 
 he could not keep the spring out of his work even when 
 painting Madonnas — women with a look of surprise in 
 their eyes, we know not whether to call it gladness or 
 sorrow, sorrow rather than gladness, for they are not 
 sure that they have not come before their time. " It is a 
 wonderful thought to ponder," Lewis said, " whether 
 Botticelli was conscious of the spring that was breaking, 
 or if he only knew it instinctively," and said he would 
 like to believe that Botticelli was aware of the extraor- 
 
215 
 
 dinary circumstance of the world in which he lived; but 
 he admitted that a contemporary never knows if he be 
 living in a great or a humble period. So it must have 
 been instinct as vague and as intense as that which ani- 
 mates birds and trees that caused Botticelli to put that 
 strange look of surprise upon his Madonnas, and to paint 
 St. John and the Holy Babe from village boys without 
 alteration, and to leave these suddenly to paint the spring- 
 tide in an April wood, choosing for his first group three 
 women with linked hands raised in a mystic dance, their 
 faces telling us of the solemn rhythm that their feet are 
 bent on following. As a contrast to these he placed a 
 girl in a spotted dress, who might well be a Madonna in 
 another picture, and we wonder whether she is glad or 
 sorry, whether she desires the satyr who, with outstretched 
 hands, would seize her for his pleasure. It is not even 
 certain that she is aware of his presence. In the picture 
 she walks forward, her eyes wide open, like a somnam- 
 bulist. What mission Botticelli had assigned to her 
 Lewis could not remember. " As likely as not," he said, 
 " she scatters flowers. No one remembers the whole of 
 a picture, however much he admires it; and to no one has 
 this picture ever meant as much as it has meant to me." 
 And then feeling that he was saying things worth saying, 
 so strangely intimate were they to him, he continued to 
 talk for a long while, telling many other things, saying 
 that no story or order of ideas or action connects the 
 figures in this picture, every one seeming to live and to act 
 without knowledge of the next one. And to make plain 
 his meaning, he spoke of the young man on the left gath- 
 ering grapes, without regard to the pagan rout of nymphs 
 and satyrs pouring into the quiet wood. Yet the picture, 
 he affirmed, did not seem to him to lack synthesis. It all 
 rose, he said, out of a single thought, and the mind was 
 not distracted by conflicting things; yet it would be dif- 
 ficult to say how this unity had been obtained: whether 
 
216 
 
 it had been gotten by the all-pervading languor or by the 
 dominating figure of Spring herself, heavy with child, at 
 the edge of the filmy wood — a strange and mournful fig- 
 ure, who overlooks the glad pageant apparently without 
 seeing it, yet conscious of it. All we can say is that the 
 gesture of one hand seems to imply something less than a 
 benediction — a sort of acquiescence. " Let it be so," the 
 hand says. 
 
 And becoming interested in this strange painter, whose 
 handicraft was sufficient (when it was his) to keep the 
 legend out of sight, and to charm us with the beauty of 
 the thing represented, Helen asked Lewis to tell her some 
 story relating to his life. Lewis answered her that, just 
 as harsh winds lurk about the frontiers of spring ready to 
 cut down the blossom, so it is in the lives of men; and he 
 told her how Botticelli's art had been blighted by the in- 
 fluence of a monk, one named Savonarola, who hated the 
 spring days and all their concomitants — laughter, danc- 
 ing, kisses, and wine; one who sought to drive the world 
 back unto prayers and repentance; and Botticelli would 
 have destroyed his picture of Venus returning from the 
 underworld if it had not passed out of his possession. 
 " His last years, Helen, were spent thinking how he 
 might save his soul depicting Dante's hell." 
 
 " How wonderful ! " Helen cried ; and encouraged by 
 the interest she showed in his words, Lewis spoke of the 
 great Pope that had lived at that time, Alexander VI. — 
 " one," he said, " who knew that the world had had 
 enough of the Middle Ages ; and fearing lest the friar's 
 influence might bring about a revival of them, he signed 
 the decree for his burning with three disciples." 
 
 " But, Lewis, you said that no man is conscious of the 
 value and the potency of the circumstances amid which 
 he lives. Do you believe that Alexander VI. was an ex- 
 ception, and that he foresaw in Savonarola a return to 
 childishness.'' " 
 
217 
 
 Lewis answered her, saying that we do not know what 
 is passing in the heart of her who is talking to us. " How, 
 then," he asked, " can we tell what passed in the heart of 
 a man who died four hundred years ago ? But this we do 
 know — that he burnt Savonarola and his disciples with 
 him." And the twain passed on to Titian, who, Lewis 
 said, had been from the beginning enchanted and beguiled 
 by his vision of women's curving bodies. He laid his 
 vision down in open landscapes, whither satyrs came from 
 neighbouring thickets, and in richly tapestried saloons, 
 on couches spread with fine linen, where lying at length 
 she could listen at ease to the music a young man was 
 playing on an organ. In another picture, by the same 
 master, two women listen by a well to the tinkling of a 
 guitar that accompanies the song of some entreating cav- 
 alier. Sexual reveries, Lewis averred these pictures to be; 
 beautiful, of course; yet he could not help feeling that 
 the great painter had pursued a fleeting phantom, till in 
 a sudden detachment of the senses he saw two women 
 seated, one on the ground clad in great robes, the other 
 naked on the edge of the well, poised in a movement lyr- 
 ical as a swallow's flight. The picture has been named, 
 he said, " Sacred and Profane Love," which shows how 
 little the art of painting may be understood, for it is cer- 
 tain that Titian's mind, while painting this picture, was 
 possessed only of a pure desire to represent life in all 
 its fulness and beauty — the divine essence rather than the 
 actual manifestation. " Dearest Lewis," Helen mur- 
 mured; and Lewis asked her if it were not a temptation 
 to believe that while painting this picture Titian had 
 looked back to Botticelli's timid Venus, saying to him- 
 self, " His was the bud, mine is the blown flower." 
 
 In works of the highest inspiration, Lewis said, the 
 artist is always detached from his subject. He was 
 moved to think this detachment the supreme inspiration, 
 and he spoke again of the women couchant and sleeping, 
 
218 
 
 Titian's or Giorgione's, no matter which, as sexual rev- 
 eries, whereas in the figure beside the well there is nothing 
 personal. By nothing personal he meant that it con- 
 tained nothing of the artist's daily nature, but was lifted 
 above it, beyond his desires, his dreams, beyond even his 
 aspirations. And it being within the schemes of Provi- 
 dence to see woman glorified at that moment, Titian was 
 chosen as her mouthpiece. We may therefore admire and 
 ponder on this picture, but we should not try to seek a 
 meaning that may be confined to words and phrases. 
 . . . The meaning of a great picture is in the heart; it 
 speaks to an inner sense, like flowers ; " it rises to the 
 condition of music " ; and the Renaissance, having ob- 
 tained from Titian a representation of woman in the ful- 
 ness and perfection of her beauty, did not seek again to 
 inspire an artist in that direction. " Nature," he affirmed, 
 " never repeats itself." And he reminded Helen that 
 Raphael had continued the pagan tradition of the Renais- 
 sance, painting his mistress as Mary Mother, surround- 
 ing her with beautiful children, so that she might seem 
 more beautiful, creating a new type of woman, but no 
 supreme song like the woman at the well. Lewis thought 
 awhile, and admitted that he could not remember a Venus 
 among Raphael's works. " There is," he said, " the Gala- 
 tea; but we may pass her by, and say that the desire to 
 represent abstract beauty seems to have faded from man's 
 mind, till it was revived by Ingres in a pose invented by 
 him, or gathered from a Greek vase and modified to his 
 own purpose." He asked Helen what age she would put 
 upon the child from whose shoulder water flows from the 
 canted urn. Helen answered about fifteen; but to Lewis 
 she represented a child of thirteen or fourteen — not more 
 than fourteen. " A child of fourteen," he said, " seen 
 with the mind's eye "; and on these words he lay back in 
 his chair so that he might think better. " Yes," he said, 
 " there is one more Venus. Ingres's pupil, his follower, his 
 
219 
 
 disciple, Cabanel, certainly devised a Venus — a Parisian 
 Venus, but still a Venus " ; and he described to Helen the 
 woman that the wave carries up on to the shore vibrating 
 from the distended toe to the arm outstretched beyond the 
 head, the fingers twisted in the coils of hair. " The left 
 arm is thrown across her face, and out of its shadow we 
 see the laughing face — laughing at what? At the wives 
 weeping on the shore, Swinburne would have us think. 
 Be this as it may, it is a perfect illustration of the 
 lines : 
 
 'A perilous goddess was born 
 Of sea-foam and the frothing of blood. ' 
 
 The Cupids with which he has filled the air, rejoicing and 
 blowing conch shells, do not draw attention from the 
 woman's beauty. His subject was woman's beauty in all 
 its attributes and perfections, and it might have been bet- 
 ter to let the single figure tell its own story. Cabanel 
 was not as great an artist as Ingres. Lefebvre, who used 
 to correct in the school in the Passage des Panoramas, 
 painted a woman afloat in a cloud — a beautiful pose, a 
 lovely idea, but insufficiently executed. As I said this 
 morning, a man, if he perceives the beauty of the human 
 form, is crazed with it, just as men who hear sounds are 
 crazed with music, and never happy except when ad- 
 miring it. I am like that, Helen, and I beg of you to 
 take off those vain garments, for I would continue the 
 sketches that I began this morning." 
 
 " But you began them in my bedroom," she said, " and 
 Polly cannot endure you in my bedroom. She is like 
 that with everybody she loves, Kate tells me, but quite 
 possibly in any other room 
 
 " Then I will draw you in this room." 
 
 " But somebody will come in, Lewis, I " 
 
 " No, we can lock the door." 
 
 " Wait till I fetch Polly " ; and Helen went out and 
 
220 
 
 brought the bird back with her cooing softly and climb- 
 ing up the cage for Helen to scratch her head. 
 
 " I think the bird should remain in her cage, or it 
 will be impossible for me to draw." 
 
 " She'll not attack you/' she answered, " if you don't 
 come too near me," and she took out the bird and allowed 
 Polly to climb on to her shoulder. 
 
 " Polly ! Your claws are too sharp, Polly ! I shall 
 have to put you back into your cage." 
 
 " It's a pity the bird is so savage," Lewis said ; " with 
 a more docile parrot I might discover a pose; put her 
 back into her cage and lean over it with a piece of apricot 
 between your teeth." 
 
 " Beauty and the bird," she said ; " do you remember 
 Rossetti's sonnet? " He was too busy drawing to re- 
 member sonnets, and when Helen could keep the pose 
 no longer he said that without the bird he might dis- 
 cover a pose that expressed Helen. He could do nothing 
 as long as the bird was present. 
 
 She said she would keep the bird quiet, and he an- 
 swered that it was not the bird's restlessness, but the 
 bird herself. "You see, Helen, the subject is you, not 
 you and the bird. I must get another piece of paper." 
 
 " You'll shut the door after you. I'll lock it to make 
 sure and open it to three knocks." 
 
 " Well, I wasn't long," he said. " I hope Mrs. Cart- 
 wright won't mind my using her things " ; and he sat 
 down in front of a drawing-board on which he had 
 pinned a sheet of Whatman. 
 
 " Move about," he said ; " don't think of me. I shall 
 see something presently " ; and he watched her figure, 
 " a sort of visible music," it seemed to him to be, and 
 it was not long before she took a pose that was very 
 nearly what he was seeking for; he had caught her 
 leaning against a cabinet on which stood a large ma- 
 jolica vase, and remembering at the same moment the 
 
221 
 
 youth gathering grapes in the Botticelli picture, he 
 said to himself : " That vase shall be the god Pan." 
 " Now, Helen, drop the right leg and stand on the left : 
 raise your hand to gather fruit in the vine above your 
 head. I think I've got the pose," he said, " in which 
 all your beauty appears. Some silken folds about the 
 dropping knee and thigh will add to it. A goblet in 
 your right hand, into which you will squeeze the juice 
 of the grapes, will explain the idea. My idea of you 
 transpires in that pose. Now, before we lose it. Don't 
 try to hold up your hand any longer; you will tire 
 yourself. I must give you something to hold on to by 
 to-morrow, a string fixed somewhere. Now, don't 
 move for ten minutes; ten minutes are all I ask." At 
 the end of ten minutes he asked her if she could hold 
 up her hand to gather the grapes that were supposed 
 to be growing on the trellis above her. She raised her 
 arm, and he said : " How long can you hold it so ? " 
 
 " Two or three minutes, perhaps," she answered ; 
 and he said that three or four minutes would be long 
 enough. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 AS a hole could not be bored through the ceiling to let a 
 cord through for Helen to hold on by, a carpenter was 
 sent for, and after a great deal of talk he seemed to un- 
 derstand what was required, and returned with an up- 
 right and a cross-beam with a hook in it, to which he at- 
 tached a piece of rope. The upright was placed against 
 the wall, and the rope fell over Helen's shoulder. 
 
 " He isn't such a fool as we thought he was," Lewis 
 whispered to Helen. 
 
 " You see, sir, it is quite strong. The lady needn't be 
 afraid to cling on by it." 
 
222 
 
 " I believe he thinks you are an acrobat," Lewis said 
 as soon as the carpenter left the room. " And now, 
 Helen, we'll begin." And he began what is known in the 
 schools as an " academy," which he said he would square 
 out on to a canvas. Three-quarters of an hour passed 
 away, and so absorbed was he in his work that he did not 
 see that Helen was losing consciousness. 
 
 " Those who aren't used to sitting . . ." he said. " I 
 should have been more watchful." 
 
 " Get me a little water ; I shall be all right presently, 
 and bring me a shawl." 
 
 After half an hour's rest she resumed the pose and was 
 able to hold it for about twenty minutes longer. 
 
 "I've done pretty well," he said; "three-quarters of 
 an hour and twenty minutes — an hour and five minutes in 
 all. All the movement is there, and the proportions, I 
 think; we shall see to-morrow how it works out. And 
 now, Helen, dear, get on your clothes, and I will take you 
 for a row on the river. And while you are dressing I 
 will write to London for a canvas. You are five feet 
 seven, and there must be six inches at the bottom of the 
 canvas and eighteen at the top. I shall require an eight- 
 foot canvas. If there is too much, a piece can be taken 
 off. It is easier to take off a piece than to add one. Eight 
 feet by five feet. If you'll sit to-morrow for three half- 
 hours, I shall be quite sure of my drawing, and to com- 
 plete the drawing, to get all the modelling, a drawing 
 from which I shall be able to paint, three or four more 
 sittings will be required. But I shall have to make a sep- 
 arate drawing of the head." 
 
 " But will you put my head upon this figure ? " 
 Lewis said he had only been thinking of the picture as 
 a work of art, without a thought of the conventional pro- 
 prieties; and later in the afternoon, while paddling up 
 and down the river from lock to lock, they talked of the 
 picture in the making — how the drawing had come right 
 
223 
 
 from the very first, the movement and the proportions. 
 Her figure had inspired him as he expected it would. He 
 had always wished to draw from somebody like her, and 
 at last he had found his model. The only point he had 
 any doubt about was the drapery. Without some drapery 
 the picture would seem a little naked. All the old masters 
 painted draperies from their drawings, and after the sit- 
 ting they went up to London to seek for some soft silken 
 or satin material that would reveal rather than hide the 
 shape of the limb. 
 
 And the very stuff needed to clothe Helen's thigh with 
 elegance was caught sight of in a shop window. Her 
 arm upheld this fortuitous drapery, in the representation 
 of which Lewis expected to meet with many checks. But 
 he met with none; fold after fold came together, and 
 stepping back so that he might obtain a better view of 
 his work, he said : " Halcyon days ! But beneath this 
 calm a storm may be brewing." 
 
 Helen answered that one must not foresee misfortune, 
 " else it will come "; and her words seemed to Lewis like 
 a prophecy, for at the end of the week they were fulfilled. 
 
 He took up his palette one morning with reluctance, 
 feeling that some of the life of the picture had fled from 
 it during the night. He could put on paint here and there, 
 but his brush could not create; and feeling that he was 
 merely daubing canvas he said to Helen : " I'm feeling 
 a little stale. I'd like to put this picture aside for a day 
 or two, and to draw you in some other pose in the in- 
 terval. There is one that remains in my mind, the parrot 
 walking up the bed to nestle herself under your chin. 
 There was a pretty movement in the arm: we spoke of 
 la chemise volee." He would like to do a drawing, a 
 pastel, a water-colour. He might see the Bacchante in a 
 different light to-morrow. 
 
 The hope took him out of bed next morning quickly. 
 He was loath to leave his bed to see his picture, but there 
 
224 
 
 was no help for it. After all, there was nothing derog- 
 atory to Helen in the action. Helen was his picture, and 
 his picture was Helen; and with these excuses on his lips, 
 he hurried to a great disappointment. His picture seemed 
 to him more trite and commonplace than it had done the 
 day before, and falling into his chair he sat with his back 
 to his picture, his heart brimmed with melancholy. And 
 seeing what had befallen him, Helen declared the picture 
 to be a masterpiece, and he put some vine leaves in her 
 hair : he thought these an improvement. But next day he 
 took them out, and his discontent finding its way into 
 Helen's mind, she wearied of the labour of sitting, and 
 said: 
 
 " Lewis, don't you think it is time we were married? " 
 " Of course I do, Helen. I've thought so all along " ; 
 and then, feeling that he must not betray too much en- 
 thusiasm for marriage, lest she should come to look upon 
 his picture as a failure, he suffered his voice to drop into 
 a soberer tone. " We've been here now nearly three 
 weeks," he said, " and how would it be for our future if 
 we were discovered here ? " He regretted his words, 
 feeling they had let out to her his moral cowardice. " She 
 is turning me over in her mind," he said to himself; but 
 in truth she was not thinking of him at all, but of a 
 letter to her father, which she would write after the 
 wedding. 
 
 " There must be a registry office in Twickenham," she 
 said, and they went out to seek one after luncheon; and 
 finding one, were told that if they had lived in the dis- 
 trict fifteen days, and gave notice that day, they could 
 be married the day after to-morrow by special licence. 
 They were told that, being British subjects, there would 
 be no necessity for them to procure birth certificates, 
 " which was," Helen said, and Lewis agreed with her, 
 " very lucky," for it would take a long time before they 
 could produce theirs. 
 
225 
 
 Very little more was said during the course of their 
 walk to " The Willows," and the next day Lewis could 
 not paint. Nor could he draw; and when Helen asked 
 him the cause of his disquiet he said : " We are about to 
 take a great step; everything will be different to-morrow 
 when we return from that little office. . . ." He stopped 
 suddenly, and she answered that it would be pleasant 
 being married, settling up with her father and mother, 
 who she had no doubt would condone her conduct; and 
 imperceptibly their talk glided into dreams of how their 
 life would plan out, and how they would manage it. 
 " Something might happen yet to prevent our marriage," 
 Helen said. Lewis wondered at her audacity; but nothing 
 happened, and they returned to " The Willows,'' having 
 come to a decision that for the time being they could not 
 do better than to live in the Vale. 
 
 " You like the house ? " Lewis said, and she answered 
 that she did, but she would miss the parrot. 
 
 " That horrid bird that bit my ear," Lewis interjected, 
 but their laughter was forced. Already they were con- 
 scious that they were no longer the same as they were 
 yesterday. It seemed that marriage had even changed 
 their identities. Each was conscious of another self and 
 of another attitude towards life, and life seemed to have 
 changed towards them. All reality seemed to have passed 
 out of " The Willows," just as it had out of the picture. 
 Helen suggested that they should remain so, so that 
 Lewis might finish his picture; but Lewis did not know 
 how long it would take to finish it. " You see, a picture 
 of those dimensions would take a long time. Perhaps if 
 it was laid aside and taken up again it would be better." 
 
 " Have you got any orders ? " she asked, and the ques- 
 tion made plain the new relations they had entered into 
 one to the other. His money was her money, her money 
 was his. She had five hundred a year of her own, which 
 was fortunate, for he could not support her upon his 
 
226 
 
 painting in any way in which she would be content to live. 
 There was Carver's portrait, which he would have to 
 begin the moment he returned to London. He wrote to 
 him asking when he would be able to sit, informing him 
 at the same time of his marriage; and when they arrived 
 at the Vale it was pleasing to find several presents from 
 the Carver family. One had sent him a Rockingham tea- 
 service — " A very pretty one, too." he said ; " I saw it in 
 the shop." Mrs. Carver sent Lady Helen a French clock 
 — two nude figures on either side, the woman showing a 
 back view very modestly, the man bending over the clock 
 to whisper the time in her ear. 
 
 " Bed-time," Helen suggested, and they laughed and 
 turned to the present that the young ladies had sent them. 
 
 " We must ask them to dinner. You'll think them 
 rather vulgar people, but they are important, and there is 
 a whole tribe of Carvers — Benjamins, Phillips, Myers, 
 and the rest, all of which will give me orders for portraits. 
 There are thousands of pounds in this connection, and 
 there are thousands of pounds, Helen, if you can per- 
 suade your father to overlook our Twickenham adven- 
 ture." 
 
 " But he need know nothing about it. We just mar- 
 ried — that is all," she answered, and went over to the 
 escritoire and sat there writing letters until dinner-time. 
 After dinner a telegram came from Carver saying that 
 Lewis might expect him to-morrow at half-past ten, and 
 that he would give sittings for his portrait all through 
 August. 
 
 Lady Helen knew how to be gracious ; and her presence 
 in the studio flattered Carver, and when the Carvers came 
 to see the portrait they were invited to dinner, and these 
 hospitalities produced, as Lewis suspected they would, a 
 new group of Jews and Jewesses anxious to have their 
 portraits painted. And when Lewis's success reached 
 Lord Granderville's ears, he said he would have preferred 
 
227 
 
 one of his own set for a son-in-law, but failing that, he 
 accepted a man of talent ; and as nothing would be gained 
 by harshness, he decided that Lewis should paint the 
 portrait that his Colonial admirers were anxious to pre- 
 sent him with. Lady Granderville thought some little 
 scandal might ensue if he were to choose another painter. 
 The fates seemed to be working for Lewis's welfare. 
 Lady Granderville's admirers wished to present a por- 
 trait to her ladyship in token of the good work she had 
 done during the five years she had lived amongst them, 
 and Lady Granderville was overjoyed at presenting her 
 daughter with another five hundred pounds. It never 
 rains but it pours, and the Carver family proved such a 
 great success in the Academy that Lewis had more work 
 on his hands than he had time to execute. He made a 
 great deal of money during these first years of married 
 life, and he could have made a great deal more if he had 
 consented to devote himself entirely to portrait painting, 
 but he wished to become a member of the Academy, and 
 his election would be advanced were he to exhibit a pic- 
 ture. No picture could be devised more likely to attract 
 the attention of the whole town than the one he had be- 
 gun in the Twickenham villa — the Bacchante leaning 
 against the statue of Pan, gathering grapes over her 
 head. 
 
 " But if it should become known that you sat for the 
 picture ? " Lewis asked. 
 
 "But what does it matter if it does become known? 
 The news will only serve to make the picture more re- 
 markable," she replied; and having obtained in the last 
 two years a greater mastery over his material than he had 
 ever possessed before, he was able to finish the picture 
 without difficulty, all of it but the head, for which he re- 
 quired some sittings, his wife's head being in such keep- 
 ing with the figure that it could not be changed. " If we 
 could get a description of the picture into the newspaper 
 
228 
 
 before the exhibition," he said; and Helen began a poem 
 that evening, and Harding was invited to dinner to hear 
 the poem at the end of the week. The verses were not 
 without merit, and Harding had no difficulty in getting 
 one of his newspapers to print them, and from that day he 
 became a constant visitor at the Vale, revising Helen's 
 poetry and encouraging her to write more. 
 
 CHAP. XXXII. 
 
 " WE must see his ' Bacchante ' ; I hear that- 
 
 " My dear Henrietta, I'm afraid we cannot stay another 
 minute. Remember we have friends coming to luncheon." 
 
 " My dear, I didn't know you had asked anybody to 
 luncheon. You said nothing to me about it. Whom did 
 you ask? . . ." 
 
 " He has painted Helen's face on his ' Bacchante ' ; a 
 most — I may say a most impolite, a most ungentlemanly 
 thing to do. Everybody is talking about it." 
 
 " But Helen must have seen the picture before it went 
 in, dear." 
 
 " Very likely she did, but Helen's notions of propriety 
 and mine have never been the same. I think we had bet- 
 ter be going. ... I take it that there is nothing you 
 particularly wish to see again? " 
 
 As the Grandervilles passed through the turnstile they 
 were greeted by Lady Marion, who cried out to them that 
 she was afraid she had forgotten her invitation card. 
 " Would they call at Charles Street and ask for it? I've 
 found it ! " she cried. 
 
 " We're so glad ; we're so glad," Lord Granderville 
 cried, as he hurried away, afraid lest she should ask if 
 they had seen the " Bacchante." 
 
 " There they go ! " Lady Marion cried to Mr. Ripple, 
 who accompanied her. " More shocked than I've ever 
 
229 
 
 seen them before. All their lives they have been looking 
 for something to shock them. Well, they've found the 
 real thing this time. Think of it! Painting his wife 
 without a stitch of clothing on her, except a scarf falling 
 about her thigh — only over one thigh, mind you, so I'm 
 told. Helen always liked exhibiting herself. I remem- 
 ber her quarrelling with her dressmaker for not cutting 
 her gowns low enough, and I dare say you remember how 
 they always seemed on the point of escaping from the 
 diamond star or arrow, and how frightened we used to 
 be. I wonder if the Grandervilles have seen the pic- 
 ture? Perhaps that is why they were hurrying away. I 
 must drop in about tea-time to hear what Henrietta has 
 to say." 
 
 " I'm afraid, Lady Marion, that you needn't go to your 
 sister to hear about this picture; everybody is talking 
 about it," the young man replied. 
 
 " Are they really ? " she answered. " Let us hasten, 
 then " ; and very soon after they found themselves among 
 a group of acquaintances engaged in discussing if Lewis 
 had not flattered his wife's figure — her arms he had cer- 
 tainly. " Helen never had good arms," somebody 
 avouched, " and her hands are large, but in the pic- 
 ture " 
 
 " Her arms are but a small portion of the picture," 
 Lady Marion interjected; and criticism turned on Helen's 
 legs, and several ladies agreed among themselves that 
 nobody had as beautiful feet. 
 
 " Helen's feet," said her aunt, " are the most beauti- 
 ful I've never seen such beautiful feet ! The feet in 
 
 the picture are certainly her feet." 
 
 At that moment a broadly built, square-shouldered man, 
 with visionary eyes, beckoned to Eipple, who, loath to 
 lose a word of Lady Marion's appreciation of her niece's 
 bodily perfections, obeyed Leek's summons reluctantly; 
 but he obeyed it, Leek being an editor of coming impor- 
 
230 
 
 tance — one who had been summoned from the chaste 
 North to purify the sensual South, and the news that 
 Lewis Seymour had painted his " Bacchante " from his 
 wife seemed to him to be the very opportunity he needed. 
 " The right of the artist to paint the naked should stir 
 the heart of Puritan London, which is not dead, but sleep- 
 eth," he was muttering to himself when he caught sight 
 of Ripple. 
 
 " I'm sorry to call you away from your friends," Mr. 
 Leek began. 
 
 " It doesn't matter," Ripple answered somewhat 
 obsequiously; and the journalist asked him the name of 
 the lady who seemed the principal of the group. 
 
 " Lady Marion — Lady Helen Seymour's aunt," Ripple 
 answered. And Mr. Leek asked if she was not very 
 angry at the scandal. 
 
 " Scandal ? " repeated Ripple. 
 
 " You have heard, I suppose," Leek continued, 
 " that " 
 
 "Ah, yes, of course!" Ripple interjected, anxious to 
 return to his friends. 
 
 " It would be very interesting," Leek said, " to have 
 Lady Marion's views. She has views, I suppose? She 
 cannot be else than indignant." 
 
 " I don't think that Lady Marion is ever very indignant 
 at anything," Ripple replied. At which a gloom over- 
 spread the journalist's face, and he began to speak of the 
 profligacy of great cities, and to vent a theory that moral- 
 ity driven out of the city retires into the hills to hide itself 
 among the peasantry, and then at last descends upon the 
 city and destroys it. 
 
 Lady Marion had moved away with her friends into the 
 next gallery, and Ripple, seeing them depart, yielded 
 himself to Leek's importunities. 
 
 Leek would like to walk round and see the pictures with 
 him, and to hear what he had to say; but Ripple soon 
 
231 
 
 found that Leek's notion of appreciating pictures was to 
 stand with his back to them and to moralise. 
 
 " The story that has reached me," he began, " is that 
 Lewis Seymour insisted that his wife should sit naked 
 for him for this picture, and if this be true we have a very 
 important matter to settle in the newspapers regarding 
 marital rights. Has a husband a right to make his wife 
 a gazing-stock, and to draw her and to paint her, and to 
 exhibit her nakedness to the multitude? " He averred 
 that all right-minded people would say that marriage did 
 not confer any such right; and he was sure that there 
 were many right-minded people who would regard such 
 conduct as sufficient cause for a divorce. The courts 
 would hold it to be cruelty to force a wife to stand naked 
 and unashamed hour after hour. 
 
 " But, Mr. Leek, it may have been Lady Helen's own 
 wish to sit for this picture." 
 
 Leek had considered this possibility; but he soon re- 
 covered himself, and answered that, if that were so, the 
 moral degradation of London was even greater than he 
 had supposed it to be; and, warming up to his subject, 
 he declared that the exhibition of the " Bacchante " raised 
 a much larger issue than that of a husband's rights to 
 obtain sittings from his wife in a state of nakedness. The 
 point that he would like to see settled was the right of 
 the artist to paint naked figures from naked human be- 
 ings — a point that went to the very heart of social life. 
 The County Council subventions schools of art, in which 
 a naked man sits one week and a naked woman sits 
 another week for classes composed of young men and 
 young women. The money for the support of these 
 schools came out of the rates, therefore the conscientious 
 ratepayer was paying young girls to exhibit themselves 
 naked to the inquiring eyes of art students of both sexes. 
 
 He was not at all certain that the ratepayer would not 
 be justified in refusing to pay rates for such purposes 
 
232 
 
 on conscientious grounds; and he believed that an agita- 
 tion could be set on foot to defend the conscientious rate- 
 payer. He believed, too, that he would find a very large 
 mass supporting him in this matter. The Archbishops of 
 Canterbury and York and the Bishop of London would 
 not be able to refuse to support him. He was not a friend 
 of the Bishops; they were a pusillanimous lot, always 
 with the majority. But he thought he could rouse them. 
 And there were many men on the County Council who, 
 when they got the matter well before them, would see 
 that they were not justified in voting for young girls to 
 degrade themselves. 
 
 " But would you banish young male models from the 
 schools of art ? " 
 
 " Not if females were excluded from the schools." 
 
 " But the exclusion of the female will raise a very in- 
 dignant protest." 
 
 The remark caused some disquiet, and Leek thought 
 for a moment before he answered that the indignant pro- 
 test would have to be faced courageously. He was always 
 on the side of the oppressed; and this much he was pre- 
 pared to admit — that the naked male was not as flagrant 
 an appeal to the female as the naked female was to the 
 male. 
 
 " You may be right, Mr. Leek, in that opinion ; but as 
 you are not a woman you cannot speak authoritatively on 
 the matter." 
 
 " This, however, is certain," Leek continued, " that if 
 the opportunity be given to women to draw from a male 
 or a female, you will find that they will choose the 
 female." 
 
 " Now there, Mr. Leek, I'm bound to say that I dis- 
 agree with you, for if the model be an Italian youth you'll 
 find all the girls drawing in that class, and the girl model 
 almost deserted by her sex." 
 
 Hippie's statement carried the discussion into all sorts 
 
233 
 
 of byways; and when it returned to the point from which 
 it started, whether the State should pay money to sup- 
 port art schools in which young girls exhibited themselves 
 naked, Leek said : " I put it to you this way, Ripple — we 
 have been engaged in a crusade against the morality of 
 the music-hall, and with the help of the clergy we have 
 forced the proprietors to abolish promenades in which 
 vicious women collect. Of what use will be the abolition 
 of the promenades if models are paid by the County 
 Council to sit naked at classes composed of both 
 sexes? " 
 
 In arguments of this kind Scripture is always quoted, 
 and Ripple reminded Leek that our Lord Jesus Christ 
 did not encourage the Pharisees to stone the woman taken 
 in adultery. He merely said : " Whosoever is without sin 
 amongst you, let him cast the first stone." " And of what 
 use would it be," he asked Leek, " to drive the women out 
 of the promenades into the streets unless they were driven 
 out of the streets into the river? And to do this," he 
 urged, " would be most unchristian — so unchristian that 
 he doubted very much if even a Bishop could agree that 
 the crusade against vice should be pressed as far as the 
 river's bank. You see," he went on, " we live in an 
 imperfect world, Mr. Leek; one that even journalism has 
 not succeeded in purifying as yet, and it is doubtful if it 
 ever will." At which remark Leek laughed. He was 
 neither stupid nor mercenary, and being anxious to hear 
 every side of the question, he listened to Ripple, who 
 asked him if he were quite sure that the Bishops would 
 agree with him in this — that nakedness is in itself sinful. 
 
 " Nakedness may not be sinful in itself," Leek replied, 
 " but it leads to sin." Whereupon Ripple, who by this 
 time had given up all hopes of rejoining Lady Marion, 
 answered that the naked races are the most moral. He 
 instanced the Zulus, and as Leek had no facts wherewith 
 to confute Ripple, he replied that the morality of the 
 
234 
 
 unclothed was merely that of animals. A good thing in 
 its way, but uninteresting compared with the higher mo- 
 rality which implied a knowledge of sin. " Man must be 
 aware of sin, Mr. Ripple, and resist it, else there can be 
 no merit." A dogma that put the question into Ripple's 
 mouth : " Am I to understand, then, that man should seek 
 out temptation so that he may resist it? A dangerous 
 practice, Mr. Leek, and one that was condemned by the 
 Church, so productive of scandals were these attestations 
 in those early times." 
 
 Mr. Leek answered with a quotation from Scripture: 
 " That likewise joy shall be in Heaven over one sinner 
 that repenteth, more than over ninety-and-nine just per- 
 sons, which need no repentance." 
 
 " You would not go so far as to say that repentance is 
 necessary to salvation? " 
 
 " I would, indeed," Leek replied. 
 
 " But the races that have no knowledge of sin ? " Ripple 
 interposed. 
 
 " I deny, and emphatically, that races exist without 
 knowledge of sin." 
 
 " Well, of course, if you are certain," Ripple answered; 
 and he was preparing to turn away, regardless of the 
 fate of the contribution he had posted that morning, when 
 Harding clapped him on the shoulder, and, being anxious 
 to parade his friendship with the great critic, Ripple said, 
 as soon as he recovered himself: "Mr. Harding, let me 
 introduce you to London's new editor." 
 
 " I'm very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hard- 
 ing " ; and Leek's voice dropped into more conciliatory 
 tones, for he was anxious to hear what Harding would 
 have to say on the question he was about to raise in his 
 paper — the moral effect of the naked female in the Royal 
 Academy. 
 
 " We were talking of the influence of the naked, or the 
 nude, as it is usually termed. My contributor — Mr. 
 
235 
 
 Ripple — and myself are not altogether in agreement as 
 to which word should be used." 
 
 Harding interposed that whenever we wish to be over- 
 nice or snobbish we use words without any specific mean- 
 ing. " It is more polite to call a shop an establishment 
 than to call it merely a shop. All violent imagery, Mr. 
 Leek, is reprehensible." And Harding told a story of an 
 Irish sergeant who, whilst giving his evidence in a divorce 
 suit, described the guilty pair as being " as naked as two 
 worrums," but the newspapers, thinking the image too 
 vivid, reported him as saying " as naked as two snakes." 
 " Snakes are not naked, Mr. Leek, as you know." 
 
 " Bad editing," Leek replied. " I should have allowed 
 the sergeant's words to stand. Of course, all you say 
 about the use of words is extremely interesting, Mr. 
 Harding, but for the moment I'd like to talk to you about 
 the relation of art to morals, if you don't mind." 
 
 " And of morals to art," Harding said — " which begat 
 which, and on which side the greatest debt lies." 
 
 " We were asking — myself and Mr. Ripple — before 
 you arrived, if art did not owe to morality more than 
 morality did to art." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Leek. You were saying," 
 Ripple interrupted, " that without consciousness of sin 
 there could be no human morality." 
 
 " Without consciousness of sin there could be no cler- 
 ical morality," Harding answered; and then, as if he 
 felt the discussion was falling into the pure abstract, and 
 as if anxious to lead it back to the Academy, to the prev- 
 alence of the naked female, he asked Leek if he were 
 prepared to submit the annual exhibition to a censorship, 
 or, in other words, to a high-class committee of gentle- 
 men whose business it would be to guide the public 
 taste. 
 
 " A censorship is a difficult matter ; liberal opinion is 
 against censorship, but I should like to get an answer to 
 
236 
 
 this question from you. Do you think that if the naked 
 be harmful, it should be prohibited? " 
 
 " If the naked be harmful it certainly should be pro- 
 hibited, life being more important than art." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear you admit so much, Mr. Harding, 
 and you will not mind my mentioning in my newspaper 
 that that is your opinion; if the naked be harmful, it 
 should be suppressed, life being more important than art." 
 
 " If there were no publication there would be few, if 
 any, opinions, just as there would be no immorality if we 
 all went naked. . . ." 
 
 " But is that so ? " Leek answered. " Mr. Ripple, my 
 contributor, seems to think with you that we should be 
 more moral if we didn't wear clothes. But it seems to me 
 that in England we must be as moral as petticoats allow 
 us to be. We cannot compel our women to go naked, so 
 that our minds may be free from sinful thoughts; and as 
 clothes are a necessary condition of our existence, clothes 
 should be observed in our pictures as in our daily life, 
 surely. You will admit that, Mr. Harding. Of course, 
 there is Greek example, and talking of Greece reminds me 
 that, despite their lack of clothing, the Greeks were not 
 an entirely moral race." Whereupon Harding, who 
 feared that Leek was about to speak of Alcibiades's shock- 
 ing proposals to Socrates, begged him to remember that 
 complete nakedness was necessary to insure complete 
 morality. And to make his views on this subject clear to 
 Leek, he told a story of four sisters, natives of Patagonia, 
 who had discovered a torn glove on the seashore, and 
 deeming it to be an article of apparel, disputed it so 
 eagerly that the parents of the girls advised that each 
 should share a finger. Lots were drawn for the different 
 fingers (there was no thumb). The first, second and 
 third fell to the younger sisters, the little finger went to 
 the eldest sister, who wore her prize humbly till it was 
 noticed that her finger alone was covered perfectly, her 
 
237 
 
 sisters' skins being visible through rents and tears. 
 Thereupon her little finger became the highest curiosity 
 among the village swains. For some reason, difficult to 
 determine, so imperfect is our psychological sense, the 
 eldest sister, though the plainest, was henceforth pre- 
 ferred to all the others, and a great store of mealies and 
 the finest hut in the village were proposed to her. But 
 she would uncover her little finger to no one, till at last 
 she was led deep into the forest, far from all curious eyes, 
 where, after protracted pleadings, she revealed her little 
 finger naked to the swain's adoring eyes : and at the word 
 naked Ripple interjected and went off into a giggling fit. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Mr. Harding, that I cannot get your 
 opinion regarding a matter that many serious people look 
 upon as of great importance. When you said, ' If the 
 naked be harmful it must be suppressed, life being more 
 important than art,' I hoped that we were about to fall 
 to a rational discussion, but I fear " 
 
 " Forgive me for interrupting you, Mr. Leek, but I 
 would remind you that if the naked be harmful we must 
 order the destruction of all our examples of Greek sculp- 
 ture that have been transported with much cost and labour 
 to the British Museum." 
 
 " Marble is but a slight enticement," Leek muttered. 
 
 " The authorities think otherwise, for a vine-leaf has 
 been hung over the middle of all the male figures. But 
 waiving that point, Mr. Leek, let us consider the National 
 Gallery, which is open two days a week for boys and girls 
 to set up their easels before pictures in which nakedness 
 abounds. If nakedness be harmful, we must order the 
 destruction not only of Greek sculpture, but of all the 
 frescoes of Michael Angelo, the canvases and the panels 
 of Titian — even Raphael will hardly escape, for he has 
 not always draped his saints and angels." 
 
 Leek interposed with a suggestion that " painting of 
 the highest genius raised itself." 
 
238 
 
 " Not above morality, surely, Mr. Leek. I hope you 
 will not put forward so heretical an opinion as that, and 
 one that cuts the ground from under your feet; for we 
 are not discussing aesthetics, Mr. Leek, but morality, and 
 if certain paintings do harm they must be destroyed, no 
 matter who painted them, life being more important than 
 art — remember that, Mr. Leek. The British Museum, 
 the National Gallery, the Wallace Collection, the Tate 
 Gallery, have now been condemned, and the moralists, 
 having had their way with the plastic arts, should begin 
 at once, if they have not begun already, to turn their eyes 
 towards literature. I read in your journal that much 
 literature is being published that should be prosecuted, 
 and every week I ask myself why you do not apply for a 
 summons against the publisher of Shakespeare, the crude- 
 ness of whose speech only yields to Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, whose plays you yourself edited in your younger 
 days and held up to admiration as great poetry. I need 
 not ask you if you have read The Custom of the Country 
 —of course you have, and will admit that from your pres- 
 ent point of view no more indecent piece of literature was 
 ever put upon paper. You complain that I cannot be 
 serious. I'm serious, and will ask you to tell me which 
 Leek we are to follow — the Leek of thirty years ago or 
 the present Leek? And then, again, who is to decide 
 between the different Leeks? You would have an inter- 
 view with me — well, let it be so. Before Beaumont and 
 Fletcher come the Elizabethan poets, and nearly all of 
 them would fall under your present censure. The Res- 
 toration dramatists — they, too, would have to be de- 
 stroyed. Sterne, Fielding, and Smollett, would have to 
 go; Byron, without question; Pepys's Diary — who is the 
 publisher? How many have published Pepys, how many 
 Byron? Your society must agitate, too, for the sup- 
 pression of the public libraries. Think of the books they 
 put into the hands of boys and girls — Shakespeare, Boc- 
 
239 
 
 caccio, Balzac and, last but not least, your own unex- 
 purgated edition of Beaumont and Fletcher. The news- 
 papers are full of divorce court and criminal proceedings 
 of all kinds — all will have to be suppressed. What a 
 holocaust of editors and literature ! Nor is the end in 
 sight. You will have to send spies into society who will 
 report all that they see and hear, for we don't go to 
 evening parties for ideas, Mr. Leek, mind that, but for 
 the pleasure of sex, direct or indirect. Women cut their 
 frocks to their waists, and the food and the drink con- 
 sumed at these parties inflame our passions; therefore 
 there must be a dietary and a sartorial censorship, and 
 when all these reforms are accomplished, then you will 
 still be confronted with the spring days which are, per- 
 haps, more than the sculpture, the pictures, more than the 
 literature, the wine and the food, more than anything 
 else, an incentive to immorality." 
 
 " You're speaking very well, Mr. Harding ; I like to 
 listen to you, but I don't agree with a single word you're 
 saying." 
 
 " Of course, you don't, Mr. Leek ; morality is your 
 foible, and without calling your sincerity in the prose- 
 cution of your foible into question, I would ask you if 
 you are not influenced by what may be termed a sort of 
 inverted immorality? " 
 
 " You would suggest, Mr. Harding, that money is my 
 motive." 
 
 " No, Mr. Leek, I wouldn't look into your pocket, but 
 into your heart, and that is why I put that question to 
 you. I read in your paper that you meet your friends in 
 council to consider the books your secretary has collected 
 
 women with long upper lips, and men with rings of 
 
 hair under their chins. You ask each other : ' Now, Mr. 
 So-and-so, may I call your attention to this passage? Do 
 you think such writing should be allowed? Is not our 
 civilisation disgraced by such books ? ' ' We agree with 
 
240 
 
 you, Mrs. So-and-so, but it is hard indeed at times like 
 the present to devise any method whereby society can be 
 cleansed.' And with this I am in agreement, Mr. Leek; 
 it is very difficult, and perhaps the would-be reformers 
 are, before God, the dirtiest parts of the community. We 
 will examine that question." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Harding; I have attended a 
 great many of the meetings of our society, and I assure 
 you all our discussions regarding the books that we think 
 should not be read by the general public are conducted 
 with extreme seriousness, and our aim is to preserve the 
 public as far as lies in our power " 
 
 " All those that persecute plead as you do — that they 
 are acting for the public good; but the most disgraceful 
 pages in history are those that tell of ecclesiastical per- 
 secutors, and the most sordid motives often hide behind 
 concern for the morals of others. My memory is a good 
 one, Mr. Leek, and I would ask you if it has never seemed 
 to you that if you could look into the minds of the gentle- 
 men collected round the table, you would read stories that 
 conflict strangely with the sentiments that fall from their 
 lips? Have you never caught yourself wondering what 
 
 was the private life of ? " and Harding whispered a 
 
 name in Leek's ear. " You remember he left a standing 
 order with a procuress for virgins and was convicted at 
 the Old Bailey for inveigling a young cook to Paris." 
 
 " I had forgotten him,'' Leek answered ; and he ad- 
 mitted that during the discussions regarding the literature 
 that was to be prohibited and disallowed this gentleman 
 had looked at his watch often, and had often seemed 
 anxious to bring thj discussion to a close, pleading ap- 
 pointments of great urgency. " A very strange case, in- 
 deed," Leek interjected; and he asked Harding if he 
 thought that the man j oined the society merely to ward off 
 suspicion, or if he recognised the weakness of his own 
 nature, and tried to atone for it by persecuting others? 
 
241 
 
 To -which Harding answered that the motive he would 
 prefer if he were obliged to write out the soul of a re- 
 ligious lecher would be the desire to indulge two vices at 
 once — lust and cruelty. " On every persecutor's heart the 
 suspicion feeds that the alleged motive is but a lie. 
 But no man speaks of his vice, nor does he meditate upon 
 
 it — he keeps it out of his mind; and your Mr. 
 
 shrank from examination of conscience and thought in- 
 stead of the cook. Are you sure yourself, Mr. Leek, that 
 in prosecuting the inquiries in which you are at present 
 engaged you are not in your subconsciousness influenced 
 by some vanity, some hope of renown or journalistic in- 
 terest? " 
 
 " No nan knows himself throughout," Leek answered, 
 and his face became overcast ; " and were we to refrain 
 from all action till we were certain of our own complete 
 sincerity, we should be as inactive as cauliflowers and 
 kidney beans." 
 
 Harding raised his eyes, and the glance was appre- 
 ciative. " The subject is an intricate one," he said. 
 
 " And that being so," Leek replied, " I would ask you 
 one more question. Is there no book, no picture, no 
 statue, that you yourself would condemn ? " 
 
 " I think that the modern writer should remain within 
 the traditions set by Chaucer, Shakespeare, the Eliza- 
 bethan dramatists, the Bible, and that if he be con- 
 demned they should be condemned with him. If the tradi- 
 tion of literature be not accepted as setting the standard 
 of literary morality, I do not know where to look for 
 another. You yourself would not hand over art and lit- 
 erature to personal prejudice and sordid motive. Your 
 own life tells you that opinions change on these matters, 
 and you will admit that a book is valuable for what the 
 author puts into it rather than for what he leaves out. 
 Or am I wrong; is your present aim the merely innoc- 
 uous? Your own Beaumont and Fletcher " 
 
242 
 
 At that moment, Mr. Ripple said: 
 
 " Hush ! there is Lady Helen." 
 
 And Harding was about to go forward to speak to her 
 when Leek laid his hands upon his arm, saying, " Will 
 you not introduce me? " 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Leek; morality and beauty are sis- 
 ters ; though, like sisters, they are not always on speaking 
 terms " ; and the introduction being accepted, Lady Helen 
 walked down the room with Leek in attendance. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIII. 
 
 A FASHIONABLE crowd continued to pour into the 
 Royal Academy, and for many hours it was difficult to 
 force a passage from room to room; to see the pictures 
 was impossible, but nobody wanted to see them, and after 
 a few remarks regarding somebody's portrait and some- 
 body else's landscape, the sightseers directed their re- 
 marks to a woman's hat, to the colour of her dress. One 
 heard : " She is very handsome." " Which one ? " " The 
 woman in the yellow dress, walking with the broad-shoul- 
 dered young man with the black moustache." 
 
 And the chatter continued, till at last the Academy be- 
 came unbearable. " If the pictures aren't interesting," a 
 lady said as she made for the turnstile, " at all events 
 they create a desire for tea. So much to the good ! Let's 
 get out ! " And at six o'clock the number of visitors 
 was reduced to some dozen or more people in the 
 small rooms, and to some thirty or forty in the larger 
 rooms. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Leek," Harding began, " what conclusion 
 have you arrived at regarding Lewis Seymour's ' Bac- 
 chante ' ? Do you think he has done his wife's body 
 justice? " 
 
 " Only her face is on the canvas," Leek began. 
 
243 
 
 " Have you had tea? " Harding asked. 
 The journalist replied that he had had the honour of 
 taking Lady Helen out to tea ; and mentioned the shop at 
 the corner of Bond Street. 
 
 " And did she. admit to having sat for the picture? " 
 
 " I'm quite satisfied," Leek answered, " that she didn't 
 sit for the figure. In fact, I know she didn't." 
 
 " How can you be certain of that ? " Harding asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know ! " Leek returned. " I know for 
 certain." 
 
 " How can you know for certain ? " 
 
 " I asked her, and she told me she had only sat for the 
 head." 
 
 " But," Harding replied, a little softened at Leek's 
 innocence, " even if she had sat for the figure, do 
 you think she would have admitted it? She could hardly 
 have said, ' There is my body ... up there; look 
 at it ! ' " 
 
 " Do you think, then," Leek asked, in a slightly angered 
 tone, " that Lady Helen would tell me a deliberate lie? " 
 
 " My dear Mr. Leek, you've come from the North, 
 where lies are unknown; but in the sensual South even 
 Duchesses don't always tell the truth." 
 
 " I've no care for Duchesses," Leek replied. 
 
 " But all women Duchesses included are angels in your 
 opinion. Now in The Custom of the Country . . ." 
 
 " I don't remember any angels in The Custom of the 
 Country," Leek replied, and Harding, who did not wish 
 to push off again into the raging flood of controversy, 
 answered : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Leek ; I see some friends of 
 mine — Thompson, the great Modernist. You will excuse 
 me, Mr. Leek," he cried, escaping from the journalist. 
 " I was just saying, my dear Thompson, to Mr. Leek, 
 that we've not had an opportunity of saying half a dozen 
 words to each other. I want to congratulate you " ; and 
 
244 
 
 on these words he took his friend's arm, and they walked 
 towards a group of painters who were waiting for their 
 chief. " I missed you all day," Harding continued, ad- 
 dressing the group. 
 
 " We've seen you, however," Frazer answered, " and 
 have been asking ourselves how it is that you care to 
 waste time on an uninteresting vegetable." 
 
 " You think of him, then," Harding said, " as a vege- 
 table, and not as a small aperture through which liquid 
 percolates ? " And turning to Thompson he asked him 
 which definition he preferred. 
 
 Thompson raised his eyebrows, and without troubling 
 to answer the question that had been put to him he said: 
 " We saw him passing up and down the room in conversa- 
 tion with Lady Helen Seymour, the model for the 
 ' Bacchante.' We used to know Seymour in bygone years, 
 before he took up with a rich grass-widow. Do you re- 
 member, Harding? " 
 
 And Harding answered that he remembered a certain 
 luncheon in the Gaiety bar. " We were all there, and 
 Lewis Seymour had just come from a shop in Bond Street 
 very flushed and excited. He had taken a small panel 
 picture there and had been asked by the rich grass- 
 widow, Lucy Bentham, to decorate her ballroom. 
 That was the first rung of the ladder, and he's been 
 climbing ever since. You used to think well of him, 
 Thompson. I believe that you once hoped to keep him 
 in the path that he was not destined by nature to 
 walk in." 
 
 " We're all falling into that mistake, Harding, your- 
 self as much as another. Lewis Seymour goes to make 
 up the world as we do. A plausive, pleasant fellow, with 
 a temperament not unlike Leek's, and who might have 
 been Leek if he had not brought into the world a certain 
 gift of hand that enables him to turn out an article that 
 ladies and gentlemen like. He could always express 
 
245 
 
 himself like the journalist. He used to speak of his 
 gift of expression, and he could talk as well as Leek or 
 Ripple — a great deal better, for however bad a painter 
 may be he knows more about paint than one who has 
 never tried to paint, and he admired the best things. 
 The National Gallery was known to him as none of us 
 here know it." And Thompson began laughing, and 
 when asked at what he was laughing he told a story, how 
 one day Seymour bad come up to his studio with four or 
 five figures, heads, landscapes, and that while exhibiting 
 these on the easel for Thompson to criticise he had said: 
 " Of course, you recognise whence they have come — the 
 master. Yes, the master is unforgettable." " I made 
 no answer, and putting up another picture on the easel 
 Seymour continued : ' There is no getting away from him, 
 is there? Once he gets hold of you he has you for ever.' 
 As I could see no trace of any master in the pictures I 
 was looking at, I was sorely tempted to ask Seymour who 
 the master was, but not wishing to hurt his feelings I 
 asked him to stay and have some luncheon with me, which 
 he did, and at every opportunity he spoke of the master, 
 of the influence he exercised, sometimes admitting the 
 influence to be regrettable. ' One should be influenced 
 by nobody, of course,' he said ; ' but everybody is influ- 
 enced by somebody, and after all, the best thing to do is 
 to be influenced by the best.' So he continued. We were 
 still talking of the master over our cigarettes, myself 
 wondering who the master could be, till at last my curi- 
 osity got the better of me, and I said : " I don't know what 
 master you are speaking of ' — not so suddenly as that, 
 for I didn't wish to offend him, but as delicately as the 
 question could be put. An embarrassed look came into 
 his face and he said, ' Well, Titian, of course. Didn't 
 you see ? ' Whereupon I said : ' Oh ! of course, of 
 course.' " 
 
 " No, Thompson ; you didn't answer, ' Of course, of 
 
246 
 
 course.' You just looked embarrassed." And Thomp- 
 son answered that it was a long time ago, and that he 
 didn't remember what answer he had given, only that he 
 felt very disconcerted. 
 
 " But he must have been a fool to think that he was 
 painting like Titian." 
 
 " He didn't mean that he was painting like Titian, but 
 that he was thinking all the time of Titian. I suppose 
 the belief somehow found a way into his mind that the 
 romantic figures he introduced into the dark backgrounds 
 were derived from Titian. How he could think such a 
 thing, I don't know ; but he could talk about Titian better 
 than Titian could have talked about himself. I don't 
 know that I've ever heard anybody talk art with the 
 same fluency. A certain gift of facile drawing robbed 
 the world of an excellent art critic." 
 
 "But I thought you despised criticism, Thompson?" 
 " I like it better than the picture we are looking at." 
 " It is very pathetic," Harding broke in, " very 
 pathetic; " and the painters, looking up, waited for him 
 to continue, for the pathos of Lewis Seymour's career 
 was not obvious to them. And nothing loath, Harding 
 began : " Who shall say that the green-grocer's assistant, 
 when he takes out his sweetheart for a walk, doesn't feel 
 as deeply as Wagner did when, on the occasion of the 
 first writing of ' Tristan,' Mathilde fell into his arms, 
 unable to bear the love any longer that she had been 
 smothering for many months past? Wagner declared 
 again and again that ' Tristan ' would never have been 
 written if Mathilde had withheld her caresses, and no 
 doubt Mathilde's caresses differed very little in intensity 
 from the caresses that the green-grocer's assistant re- 
 ceives at the end of the evening's walk; but in one case 
 the caresses brought forth a masterpiece and in the other 
 — let us hope — brought forth no artistic flower or fruit, 
 not even occasional verses in the poet's corner, only a 
 
247 
 
 little break after keeping company for two years, or a 
 little marriage in a registry office. I've tried to believe, 
 but cannot, that artistic expression springs from intensity 
 of feeling; it must be an independent gift, for were it 
 else we should have to suppose that Wagner experienced 
 a much deeper emotion than the grocer's assistant. But 
 we know he didn't, for though he was often tempted to 
 throw himself into the canal at Venice, he returned home 
 to finish the song that he had composed to her words, 
 ' Dreams.' The grocer's assistant very often kills him- 
 self, and it is difficult to say that a man who dies for 
 an idea has not given ultimate proof of his attachment 
 to it." 
 
 " It seems to me," Thompson said, " that the supreme 
 test of an attachment to an idea is to live for it; a much 
 more difficult task than to die for it." 
 
 " I'll admit that you're right, Thompson, for to pur- 
 sue the argument would involve us very soon in meta- 
 physics; pure reason leaves me indifferent. But I warm 
 up when I fall to thinking that the emotion that Lewis 
 Seymour experienced when he first looked upon his 
 wife in that stupid movement was no less than 
 Titian's when he saw the woman seated at the edge of 
 the well." 
 
 " Lewis Seymour always admired that picture more 
 than any other," Thompson said, " and I remember his 
 talking to me about it, saying that Titian had never seen 
 a woman in that pose. No woman could take the pose, 
 he said, but a woman had appeared to Titian as women 
 might in a dream. The dreamer is the cause of the women 
 who appeared, but he doesn't know that he is the cause, 
 and he is surprised at seeing them. So did Titian paint, 
 according to Lewis Seymour." 
 
 " That bears out," Harding interjected, " my theory 
 that men all feel the same ! " 
 
248 
 
 " But they don't all feel the same," interrupted Frazer. 
 " Pain, for instance." 
 
 " It may require more to make one man feel pain than 
 it does another," Harding replied, " but the pain they feel 
 is the same." 
 
 The argument became entangled, drifting from psy- 
 chology into physiology, but at length Harding, who had 
 been thinking for some time, turning his thoughts over 
 and over, claimed speech. 
 
 " Seymour felt as much as Titian, only he could not 
 express what he felt. His wife's beauty entranced him 
 while he was looking at it. He was possessed by a vision 
 and by an emotion, but both faded in the passage from 
 the brain to the canvas. I refuse to believe that Lewis 
 Seymour's vision of his wife naked corresponds in the 
 least with the very moderate picture which Thompson 
 has, with some severity, termed a piece of linoleum. Yet 
 he accepts it as the equivalent." " But does anyone," 
 Frazer asked, " succeed in transposing his vision exactly 
 as it is on to canvas or paper? It comes out better or 
 worse, but it comes out different." The point was dis- 
 cussed, and at last Harding, who was tired of standing, 
 said : " I think we have talked of Lewis Seymour long 
 enough for one afternoon." 
 
 " We have, indeed," Thompson answered. " The 
 artist doesn't talk much about art; he leaves aesthetics to 
 critics. His contribution to the subject is the picture 
 he exhibits, and, if he be a writer, the book that he pub- 
 lishes. We know the difference between bad pictures 
 and good ones ; and it is really much better to look at 
 the pictures themselves than to stand with our backs to 
 them talking." " There being no pictures to look at," 
 Harding interjected, " we have to talk." 
 
 " There are always a few, even at the Academy," 
 Thompson said. " Come and let us look round the walls, 
 and see if we can find a few pictures in this house of ill- 
 
249 
 
 fame that will justify us in continuing to exhibit here." 
 The group walked round the walls, finding little except 
 their own pictures to interest them, and on going through 
 the turnstile Thompson called his disciples together. " I 
 think you will agree with me it would be well for us to 
 leave this great palace of morals and commercialism. Its 
 splendours oppress us, and if you are all agreeable, we 
 will retire to some little hall in Chelsea and exhibit our 
 pictures to our friends and sympathisers." 
 
 CHAP. XXXIV. 
 
 THE success obtained by the " Bacchante " did not, 
 however, lift Lewis immediately to the rank of an 
 Academician, and the reasons that persuaded the Acade- 
 micians to overlook his claims were in the first place 
 their dislike to the publication of the naked wife. 
 Rubens's practice was referred to, but it was pointed 
 out by more than one Academician that Rubens had 
 drawn a cloak about the middle of her body. Moreover, 
 Lewis Seymour was not Rubens, and, though attractive 
 to the public, could not be held to be of such striking 
 merit as to overrule all social usages. " We have had 
 Mrs. Bentham in the Academy in all her fineries," said 
 an R.A., " and for all we know we may have her without 
 them next year." And then it came to be whispered that 
 Mr. Carver, of Bond Street, had obtained from Mrs. 
 Bentham a large commission to buy Lewis's pictures 
 whenever they came into the market. The phrase, 
 " whenever they came into the market," was picked up 
 by the Academicians. " They never come into the 
 market," cried an Associate. " Carver bought them off 
 the easel." Another Academician interjected that the 
 pictures Lewis had painted of the Carver family were 
 charged in whole or in part to Mrs. Bentham; and the 
 
250 
 
 fact that they were popular did not justify Carver in 
 threatening to present them to the nation. The reproach 
 of popularity would not have heen allowed in any other 
 circumstances; but as nobody wanted to have Lewis 
 Seymour in the Academy — for the moment, at least — 
 the younger men were listened to, and painters of no 
 greater merit than Lewis Seymour were elected one after 
 the other. 
 
 The Academy would not have him as a member ; but his 
 portraits pleased. His sitters were nearly all titled folk, 
 and, as an Academician put it, " If we didn't hang his 
 Countesses we should hear of it in the newspapers." 
 
 Pictures beget pictures, and every portrait that Lewis 
 Seymour painted brought him another order; and the 
 money that came in put the thought into Lewis's head 
 that it would be to his advantage to live in a more 
 fashionable part of London. He often mentioned to his 
 wife that he had outgrown Chelsea; but Helen said it 
 would be impossible to find an open space like the Vale 
 in Mayfair, unless, indeed, one were the Duke of Devon- 
 shire or Westminster. Helen preferred to live in the 
 Vale in a Georgian house, and " the lovely twain " were 
 often seen driving forth, Lewis extended in the victoria, 
 looking, so a painter once said, like a Venus, a sort of 
 damaged Guido Reni — a remark that amused everybody. 
 When asked what Helen looked like, he compared her to 
 a caryatid; and when asked to make plain his meaning, 
 he said she supports the house; but the criticism did not 
 strike the imagination like the first — " extended in a 
 victoria looking like a Venus or a damaged Guido Reni." 
 In society the Seymours were always conspicuous. Lady 
 Helen in front of the box at the opera, drawing up her 
 shoulders in front of the audience, and then presenting 
 a view of her back, and in this way becoming known to 
 the general public. In the newspapers her name was 
 mentioned as having been present at all social functions, 
 
251 
 
 talking and smiling, encouraging a crowd to assemble 
 about her. At the other end of the room Lewis courted 
 the dowagers. Leaning over the backs of their chairs, 
 he whispered in their ears, and sometimes turned suddenly 
 upon a woman, and, after staring at her almost rudely 
 for some time, he would say : " Good heavens ! What a 
 profile! " " You like my profile," the fair one answered; 
 and then Lewis became the very image and likeness of 
 the spider crying to the fly: " Belle mouche, belle mouche, 
 venez dans ma toile." 
 
 Season after season went by, and society was beginning 
 to weary of the Seymours, when one day Lewis appeared 
 without his wife, and some time after, suddenly and 
 altogether, people began to notice that Lady Helen was 
 absent from all social functions. A few conjectures 
 were hazarded, and then suddenly everybody whispered: 
 " She is carrying ; " and the section of society to which 
 the Seymours belonged fell to discussing how Lewis's 
 classical studies might be continued after his .wife's 
 lying-in. It was urged that a woman's figure could not 
 be the same after a birth of a child as before; the lines 
 are always thicker, it was said. " And Lewis's art is 
 so raffine," babbled a number of voices. " Which of us 
 will he ask to sit for him? " the eyes seemed to say; 
 and a young man related all he knew and learnt of the 
 bosom after child-birth. He had seen women that child- 
 bearing had robbed of no charm, and he had seen women 
 that even the first child had robbed of all physical charm. 
 There was no rule. Helen might rise from le lit de misere 
 (the language spoken in this society is neither English 
 nor French, but a sort of mule language) the Venus she 
 was a few months ago, or so much changed that she would 
 never be able to pose before her husband again. It all 
 depended upon the figure; and Helen's figure would 
 probably undergo no change, at which the young girls 
 smiled approval, whereas the matrons looked incredulous ; 
 
252 
 
 and to break an awkward silence somebody said that 
 Lewis spent his evenings at home with his wife, and 
 drew a somewhat fond picture of the twain. He even 
 ventured out into a prediction that the child, which would 
 be born towards the end of the year, would unite them 
 in a deeper love than any they had known in the 
 Twickenham villa, when the parrot, Lewis's first rival, 
 had bitten his ear. The anecdote had been told again 
 and again at luncheon-tables. All their friends and 
 acquaintances had enjoyed it; and while new luncheon- 
 tables were asking if Lewis's second rival would prove 
 talkative, Helen was thinking that it was nice to get 
 back to a figure again. 
 
 " Do you think I shall be able to sit for you again, 
 Lewis ? " 
 
 " So far as I can see, Helen, your figure has not 
 changed in the least; but I won't express a definite 
 opinion for another two months. I have an order for 
 another picture, something that will go along with the 
 'Bacchante'; and if I can get another subject that 
 catches the public taste my election will be secure, if 
 X and Y and Z can be won over. . . ." 
 
 " They shall be won over," Helen answered; and very 
 soon after, at every dinner and luncheon party, Helen 
 was at work, bestowing smiles on every man, upon Leek 
 and Ripple, upon all of the newspaper kin. She was 
 determined to conquer the Academy, and to do this it 
 might be necessary for them to go to Park Lane. Chelsea 
 was too far to ask the Academicians to come to dinner. 
 But dinner in Park Lane to meet the Grandervilles ! A 
 carriage — not a one-horse brougham, but two horses — 
 would overawe; Hilton and Holt, Murray and Bevis, 
 would open their eyes, saying: "Two horses!" 
 
 There were studios within ten minutes' walk, and a 
 ten minutes' walk to and fro would keep down Lewis's 
 figure. He didn't walk enough, and was beginning to 
 
253 
 
 develop — well, a girdlestead. Her father and mother 
 approved of her plans, and it was while spending the 
 week-end with them that she met two young men who 
 had taken her fancy — the taller of the two very smartly 
 indeed; and her father, seeing that she was captivated, 
 took her aside, saying: " Helen, these young men, though 
 their appearance doesn't betray them, are not desirable 
 acquaintances for you." 
 
 " Then why are they here, father? " 
 
 To which Lord Granderville answered : " They are 
 here by mistake, and will never be asked again." 
 
 Helen was sorry to hear her father speak ill of two 
 such good-looking, well-valeted young men, whose velvet- 
 like black hair was brushed smoothly back from their 
 foreheads, and she was tempted to resent his description 
 of them — " young men out for pleasure, on the watch for 
 money." 
 
 " I've never heard before, father, that a man who 
 marries for money " 
 
 The word " marry " seemed to embarrass Lord Gran- 
 derville; and Helen, who had already understood, and 
 was but playing with her father, listened to her aunt, 
 who did not hesitate to make plain what Granderville 
 would have been willing to leave in respectable shadow. 
 
 " A young man of very shady character, indeed, Helen ; 
 one of the band known in the clubs as ' money-kissers.' " 
 
 " Money-kissers, aunt ! What are money-kissers ? " 
 
 " One who lives upon women," Lady Marion answered. 
 " I'll explain to Helen, Granderville, that she cannot 
 possibly ask young Hepworth to her house " ; and, taking 
 Helen aside, she confided to her some worldly knowledge. 
 " The taller man — the one you admire, Helen — is the 
 worser of the two. The shorter man may be all right, I 
 know nothing about him; but he is the intimate friend of 
 the other — the one you admire. He is notoriously an 
 evil liver. One hears of the women he has plundered 
 
254 
 
 wherever one goes. For some time past he has been 
 
 getting money from " Lady Marion whispered a 
 
 name in her niece's ear. There was no reason why she 
 should have whispered it unless walls have ears. They 
 stood alone at the end of a shady saloon almost within 
 the folds of the window curtains, Helen receiving instruc- 
 tions from her aunt, an old lady, garrulous, in a fair 
 wig and a beribboned cap. " Have nothing to do with 
 him, Helen. He is one of a band " ; and Helen was told 
 of a number of young men out for pleasure. 
 
 " That is what father says — ' out for pleasure.' " 
 
 " Well, that is just what it is, Helen. Pleasure costs 
 money, therefore money is the one important thing in 
 their eyes. The means they employ to get it are of no 
 moment in their appreciations, and scruple with them is 
 contemptible." 
 
 " But if the woman has ten thousand a year and the 
 man two hundred, do you think, aunt " 
 
 " Do I think they should go to Italy together? " Lady 
 Marion interjected. "It all depends; my morality is 
 wide, but I dislike the bird of prey." 
 
 " The bird of prey," Helen repeated, " is certainly 
 undesirable " ; and a few minutes afterwards, catching 
 sight of the young man in question walking down the 
 terrace, she was struck by his appearance, and she 
 wondered how it was that the same young man who had 
 pleased and attracted her half an hour before now 
 repelled her. She disliked the neck and shoulders that 
 she had admired, and found fault with his gait. Yet he 
 was the same young man — but was he the same young 
 man? He was transformed from what he was, and by 
 an idea that had been put into her mind. She did not 
 know that she could be influenced, and so easily. How 
 very strange. The young man passed away; she did not 
 wish ever to see him again, but in passing out of her 
 life he seemed to have left something of himself behind; 
 
255 
 
 or was it that somebody like him had always been in 
 her mind ? " How very strange ! Why do I put such 
 senseless questions to myself? " 
 
 It was not till some days later that she remembered 
 that Lewis had been in love with Lucy Bentham. She 
 had always known of this old attachment, and could not 
 understand how it was that this clandestine love story 
 should appear to her in a new and almost menacing light. 
 The book dropped from her lap, and she fell to thinking, 
 and a connection of ideas soon formed in her mind. She 
 remembered things she had forgotten or that had remained 
 hidden at the back of her mind. Lewis had accepted 
 money from a woman, just as the young man she had 
 met at her father's house had done. He may have 
 accepted money from many women, and she sat surprised 
 that she had never thought of these things before. She 
 seemed to understand Lewis for the first time, and she 
 compared his physical appearance as she remembered it 
 with the appearance of the young man that her aunt 
 had warned her against, and, finding him true to type, 
 she began to hate the very aspects that once attracted 
 her — the shoulders, the waist, the gait. 
 
 A visitor was announced, and Helen started so abruptly 
 out of her chair that the visitor could not do else than 
 express regret for having awakened her. 
 
 "I was not asleep," she answered, "only thinking; 
 but of what I was thinking I haven't the faintest notion. 
 I was away, that is all. You'll have tea? I'm longing 
 for a cup " ; and the two women talked of indifferent 
 things for about half an hour; and when her visitor left 
 her, Helen remembered that when her aunt had told 
 her that the young man at Ham was kept by — Helen 
 had forgotten the lady's name — she had said : " But if a 
 woman has ten thousand a year and wants to go to Italy, 
 I don't see why, if the man cannot afford the journey, 
 the woman should not pay for it." Her aunt had seen 
 
256 
 
 no harm in the arrangement. . . . Society doesn't think 
 the worse of a man if he marries a rich woman. Why 
 should society forbid a rich mistress ? " Society doesn't," 
 Aunt Marion had answered, " but Society doesn't like 
 birds of prey." Lewis wasn't a bird of prey. She was 
 sure of that. A weak, sensual man, perhaps, hut not a 
 bird of prey. The young men at Ham were " out for 
 pleasure " ; her aunt's very words — week-ends, tennis, 
 fashionable restaurants, race meetings, and such like. 
 But Lewis was devoted to his art — no one had striven 
 harder than he. How unjust she was! Lewis had never 
 pretended to her that he was a virgin, and she had not 
 hoped to marry one. All the same, she would have liked 
 a man who was himself, and nothing but himself. If a 
 stream has many affluents, the quality of the original 
 water becomes less and less pure, and so it is with human 
 beings. If Lewis had merely kissed Lucy Bentham once 
 or twice, three times, or half a dozen times, it would not 
 have mattered. But he had lived with her for years, 
 absorbing her personality, till a great part of himself was 
 lost. She had married Lewis Seymour plus Lucy 
 Bentham. She had not a lover, only part of a lover. Of 
 the original Lewis Seymour nothing was left; and con- 
 sidering her husband closely, she noticed how he had been 
 woven along and across by other influences, principally 
 by Lucy Bentham. He spoke like Lucy Bentham on 
 many occasions. She had never noticed it before; or, if 
 she had noticed it, her knowledge of the adulteration 
 remained in her subconsciousness, but now it was 
 apparent, and it was her fate to bear with it. 
 
 She had not got a genuine article — that was the long 
 and the short of it. Many had preceded and many would 
 follow her, and they that had preceded her had, no 
 doubt, tried to make the best of it, and those that 
 followed her would do the same. She couldn't do else. 
 She had a child, and she must be content with the 
 
257 
 
 husband for the sake of her child. How strange it all 
 seemed, and what a deception life was for everybody! 
 She seemed to understand many things which she had 
 never understood before, and was soon asking herself if 
 life had come to seem to Lewis as shallow as it had 
 come to seem to her. She was minded to ask him, and 
 remembered that there are secrets which one cannot 
 disclose to anybody. Life was but make-believe, a 
 discovery which she must keep locked in her heart while 
 she went about trying to cajole the Academicians to elect 
 her husband a member of the Academy. It was her duty 
 to do this ; and she was conscious of a deep impulse in her 
 to contribute to her husband's fortune and reputation. She 
 was conscious also of the feeling that as soon as he was 
 elected a member of the Academy she would be free. She 
 asked herself why she was not free now, and as her heart 
 did not answer her, it seemed that her thoughts were non- 
 sense. . . . We live, she said, in a nonsense world — the 
 silliest that whirls through the Milky Way. 
 
 CHAP. XXXV. 
 
 THE month was July; the season was dragging itself 
 into August, and Helen and a seamstress, or a lady's 
 maid — Helen judged her to be one or the other — were 
 almost alone in the Academy. " She is too old to be a 
 model, and not well dressed enough to be a lady's maid. 
 A seamstress, no doubt " ; and she watched the woman 
 seeking a particular picture. " But why should a seam- 
 stress, a working woman of some kind for certain, be 
 interested in pictures ? " and her curiosity now fully 
 awakened, Helen watched the woman look into the 
 corners of the pictures for the artist's signature. " Too 
 poor," she said, " to buy a catalogue." And she was 
 moved to go and buy one at the turnstile and offer it to 
 
258 
 
 her. A way, she thought, of getting into conversation 
 with her and finding out which picture the woman was 
 seeking, and why she was seeking it. " She will be glad 
 to have the catalogue," Helen continued, and on her 
 return from the turnstile she followed the seamstress or 
 the lady's maid into the long gallery, certain that it 
 could not be a picture, but the painter of a picture, that 
 interested her. And as the conviction took possession of 
 her mind, she saw the woman stand before Lewis's 
 " Clytsemnestra " enrapt. 
 
 Half a minute, a minute at most, is the time that a 
 visitor to the Academy devotes to a picture, whereas 
 Lewis Seymour's admirer seemed as if she could not tear 
 herself away from the " Clytsemnestra," and when she 
 moved away from it she stopped before one of Lewis's 
 portraits. " It is, then, the quality of the painting that 
 attracts her," Helen said to herself, and began to 
 wonder if Lewis's admirer was an artist. " But she 
 doesn't look like an artist-— a model, perhaps, whom 
 Lewis painted many years ago." And feeling that the 
 artist-seamstress or model held the secret that had eluded 
 her so long, she felt she must speak to the woman, though 
 she knew full well that to do so was not honourable nor 
 just nor right. She tried to resist the temptation, but it 
 overpowered her, and she offered her catalogue to the 
 seamstress, whom she now recognised by her speech as 
 of the working class, the wife of a carpenter, glazier, or 
 bricklayer. 
 
 "You need not return it," Helen answered; and the 
 women stood staring at each other. It was not till the 
 working woman was about to pass on that Helen mustered 
 sufficient courage to ask her if she liked pictures. 
 
 " I like Mr. Seymour's pictures. The picture over 
 yonder with a long name to it is as beautiful as any that 
 he has painted ; and if you'd be so kind, ma'am, would you 
 tell me what it is all about? " 
 
259 
 
 Helen related the story of Clyta?mnestra to her com- 
 panion, who listened with an attention that surprised her. 
 
 " Now that you have told the story to me, ma'am, I 
 can see it all in the picture." 
 
 " So you like Mr. Seymour's pictures ? " Helen said, 
 as they walked towards the sculpture room. 
 
 " So much, ma'am, that I come to see them every year. 
 I used to know him a long time ago. We lived together 
 in the same house, and I sat to him." 
 
 "Ah! A model?" 
 
 "Only to him, ma'am. Do you know Mr. Seymour? 
 Have you sat to him? " 
 
 " You say you come to see his pictures every year," 
 Helen interjected hurriedly. " Do you remember the 
 ' Bacchante ' that he exhibited some years ago ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed I do ! But what a beautiful figure you 
 must have if you sat for that ! Do you do much sitting? " 
 
 " No ; like you, I never sat for anybody but Mr. 
 Seymour. I am his wife. And now that I have told 
 you who I am, perhaps you will please tell me your 
 name ? " 
 
 " My name, ma'am, is Fuller. But he wouldn't know 
 me by that name. I was Gwynnie Lloyd when he knew 
 me " ; and Helen heard the story of how Mr. Jacobs 
 had come to the lodging-house in the Waterloo Road 
 with a panel, and a request that Mr. Seymour should 
 paint a Venus with some Cupids upon it, and take it up 
 to Bond Street. " I was so silly in those days, ma'am, 
 that I ran away, fearing that worse might happen to me 
 than sitting to him; but he had gone away to the country 
 when I pulled myself together and went down to Mr. 
 Carver's shop to ask after him. I hoped he'd write, but 
 he didn't, which was just as well, for shortly after I met 
 Fuller, a house-breaker — not a burglar — Mark Fuller, 
 who died last year. He left me with three children." 
 Finding an indulgent listener in Helen, she related her 
 
260 
 
 prospects of a second marriage. " It is strange how 
 things come about. And fancy my meeting you this day 
 in the Academy ! " 
 
 " Since you come here every year to see his pictures, 
 it is strange that we didn't meet before. I wonder you 
 never tried to see him." 
 
 " I'd like to see him well enough in a way, ma'am ; 
 but everything is so different. It might be painful to us 
 both." 
 
 And Helen wondered at this very true comprehension 
 of life. Lewis would certainly be embarrassed, and 
 would transfer his embarrassment to Mrs. Fuller. The 
 interview would be a pleasure to neither. But how 
 wonderful that she should know that to seek him out 
 would spoil everything. " His pictures are enough," she 
 said to herself; and asked Mrs. Fuller if there was any 
 message. 
 
 " No, ma'am — no message of any account ; but I'd 
 like to have a photo, if you can spare one, just to see how 
 he looks now." 
 
 " I don't think you'll find him much changed." And 
 after taking Mrs. Fuller's address Helen returned home, 
 thinking how all things come together again in life. 
 " Once an attraction has been set up," she said, " the 
 atoms are drawn into the circle of gravitation, however 
 widely they may have been scattered." And then, her 
 thoughts descending suddenly from the general to the 
 particular, she began to understand how the chance 
 meeting in the house in the Waterloo Road had created 
 an idea that time could not quench in Mrs. Fuller. Her 
 life was often a struggle for mere bread, but the struggle 
 had not been able to kill her love, nor marriage, nor 
 child-bearing; Lewis remained the romance of this 
 woman's life. " And how wise she is not to pitch her 
 romance into the arena of reality. If she accepted my 
 invitation to come to William Street to see Lewis, she'd 
 
261 
 
 leave it with an empty heart. Only by remaining away 
 can she retain him. Her wisdom is truly the wisdom of 
 the wise." And Helen asked herself if the photograph 
 she had promised to send Mrs. Fuller would not conflict 
 with the image in her heart. Even so, she must send 
 the photo. . . . Perhaps it would be better if they hadn't 
 met in the Academy. Should romance and reality ever 
 overlap ? 
 
 As her carriage drove up the King's Road she asked 
 herself which photograph she would send, and it seemed 
 to her that Mrs. Fuller would like the one standing on 
 the table in the studio. 
 
 " Have you got any news, Helen? " her husband asked 
 her. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I have news." He had just laid 
 down his palette, and was walking up and down the 
 studio. 
 
 " I'm elected, then? " 
 
 " I haven't heard." 
 
 " Then, what news ? You must forgive me," he said, 
 " if I seem egotistical, but one's nerves are on edge on a 
 day like this, when any hour may bring the news. Do 
 sit down and tell me where you've been." 
 
 She threw herself into a chair, and her eyes went 
 round the walls. 
 
 " What are you looking for? " 
 
 Helen did not answer, and he asked her whence she 
 had come. 
 
 " From the Academy," she answered. 
 
 " Just turned in," he said, " to see how the ' Clytsem- 
 nestra ' was looking? And how was it looking? Did it 
 strike you that I might be passed over again? Were 
 there many people? " 
 
 " No," she answered, " the galleries were nearly 
 empty; but it contained one of your admirers." 
 
 " Who was she? " 
 
262 
 
 " You jump at once to the conclusion that it was a 
 woman. Well, it was a woman; one whom you knew 
 many, many years ago — a Mrs. Fuller." 
 
 " Mrs. Fuller ! " he repeated. And Helen studied his 
 blank face as he searched for somebody that had borne 
 that name. 
 
 " A model, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Yes, a model," Helen answered. " Somebody you 
 once knew in the Waterloo Road when you lodged there." 
 She could tell by his face that he remembered Gwynnie 
 Lloyd, and it pleased her to indulge in pin-pricks. 
 " Fuller was not her name then ; when you knew her it 
 was Gwynnie Lloyd, a little Welsh girl who sat to 
 you for a panel that a man called Jacobs took to your 
 lodgings." 
 
 " Yes, I remember Gwynnie Lloyd. But what of that? 
 You met her in the Academy. How did you know her ? " 
 and Helen told him of Mrs. Fuller's interest in his 
 pictures : how she had stood before the " Clyteemnestra " 
 for many minutes, and then looked round for another 
 picture and found it in Lewis's portrait of Lord Worthing. 
 
 " It seems strange that a working woman should like 
 my pictures," Lewis interrupted. " I always try for a 
 permanent human interest — something beyond the mere 
 craft." 
 
 " I told her the story of Clyteemnestra, and she said 
 she could read the watch-fires in the painted eyes. I 
 expected that she would find another subject-picture to 
 admire, but when I saw her standing enrapt before 
 Lord Worthing's portrait I said, ' It is quality she 
 is after.' " 
 
 " I don't think she could appreciate quality — that's 
 the painter's business ; but Worthing's portrait is typical." 
 
 " I offered her my catalogue, and she told me her 
 story." 
 
 " Did you ask her to come here ? " 
 
263 
 
 Helen said she had suggested a visit; but Mrs. Fuller 
 felt that there was.no bridge across the long interval of 
 years that separated them, and their circumstances, too, 
 divided them. " But she asked for a photograph, and I 
 was thinking of sending her the one that stands on the 
 table." 
 
 " No, don't send that one," Lewis answered ; " it isn't 
 a good one." 
 
 The door opened, and Mrs. Bentham came into the 
 room; and passing by Helen, who in her excitement 
 escaped her notice, she walked towards Lewis, and took 
 his hands, saying : " Oh, Lewis, I'm so glad that it is I 
 that bring you the news ! " 
 
 " That I'm elected? Is that so? " he cried. 
 
 " Yes," she said. And looking round the studio she 
 caught sight of Helen dimly, and went to her, saying: 
 "I beg your pardon, Helen; I didn't see you. I can 
 think of nothing but the good news." 
 
 " My dear Lucy, it is very good of you to come with 
 it," Helen answered. " I've been to the Academy, but 
 came back with no news. Go and tell Lewis how you 
 heard the news; he'll be interested to hear the details." 
 
 " Won't you, too, be interested in the story? I assure 
 you it is rather interesting." 
 
 " I shall listen, of course." And Lady Helen sat, her 
 legs crossed, her foot dangling outside her skirt, thinking 
 still of Gwynnie Lloyd, and the elder-bush growing in 
 the corner of the Vale garden appeared to her as an 
 image of Gwynnie Lloyd. Both were humble and almost 
 unnoticed. The elder-bush produced a pleasant blossom. 
 And then, awakening a little from her reverie, she 
 listened to Lucy, who for years had striven after Lewis's 
 welfare, protecting him, loving him always. And she 
 thought of the lime-tree in front of the house on the 
 Vale — a shapely tree, rising to a great height, casting a 
 pleasant shade, emitting a delightful perfume. And 
 
264 
 
 Lucy appeared to her like a lime-tree. Gwynnie was 
 the shrub, Lucy was the tree. Helen asked herself 
 what tree she resembled, without being able to find 
 one that exactly fitted her case. She felt ugly 
 towards him. She was not like the oak, nor the pine, nor 
 the elm. She was at that moment more like a holly than 
 any other tree. She was all thorns, and anybody that 
 might try to creep under her branches would encounter 
 thorns. As aggressive as a holly to Lewis; but to some 
 other man she might become as dulcet as the aspen. 
 But the aspen wavers in every breath of wind. She 
 wasn't an aspen, but a holly, and a holly she would 
 remain till she and Lewis were separated — not formally 
 separated by law, but as soon as they began to go their 
 different ways. 
 
 His painting concerned her no more, and he concerned 
 her even less than his painting. 
 
 The door opened, and Mr. Harding was announced. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, " I see Mrs. Bentham is before me. 
 She has brought you the news." 
 
 " How good of you, Harding, to think of me ! Come 
 and sit here and tell us what you've heard about my 
 election. 
 
 " Now that I am an Associate, I suppose there can be no 
 doubt that at the first vacancy I shall be elected a full 
 R.A. Come, let us talk about it." 
 
 " Well, my dear Seymour, I shall be very glad to do 
 so; but your wife has sent me some manuscript to look 
 over, and I should like to have a word with her about her 
 poems." 
 
 " If you don't mind walking round to Park Lane with 
 me I'll give you a cup of tea, and we can go through the 
 poems together. Lewis, you will bring Lucy on with you; 
 or perhaps she'll take you to tea at Carlton House 
 Terrace. Just as you like." 
 
 Harding did not altogether approve of this plainness 
 
265 
 
 of speech, and he sought to overcome his disquiet with 
 quotations from her poems. 
 
 At last they reached 34, and Helen said : " At the end 
 of the passage I have a little nook." 
 
 " I think the sonnet beginning, ' When faded are the 
 chaplets woven of May/ quite perfect." 
 
 " I hope it isn't the only poem that you can admire 
 without reservation." 
 
 " As soon as one praises a poem to a poet," Harding 
 answered, " he fancies that his critic dislikes the rest." 
 
 " Let me read this to you, Lady Helen : 
 
 "When faded are the chaplets woven of May, 
 Unto the deepening darkness of the skies 
 Goes forth a train of human memories 
 Crying: 'The past must never pass away.' 
 
 " Yet, in this time of ruin and decay, 
 The fragrance of an unborn summer sighs 
 Within the sense, before my dreaming eyes 
 Passes the spirit of an ideal day. 
 
 " Then, fervid hours of sunlight and repose, 
 The warm delights, the tears that true love knows, 
 Are mine, are thine; until in sweet belief 
 
 "We dream, beside our broken prison bars, 
 Of love exceeding joy, defying grief, 
 And higher than the throbbing of the stars." 
 
 " I'm so glad you like the sonnet. But there are 
 others " ; and during the course of the afternoon they 
 read poem after poem together; and at the end of the 
 afternoon, when he stood up to go, and extended his hand, 
 he said: 
 
 " Then I may expect you at tea-time to-morrow." 
 " Oui, monsieur ; madame se presentera demain chez 
 monsieur a l'heure du the." 
 
 THE END