Katharine could not keep the expression of curiosity out of her eyes as she watched Hester Crowdie. The woman’s whole manner had changed in an instant, and she seemed to be another person. She seemed trying to hold her breath to catch the distant and ever retreating sound of her husband’s voice. The colour in her pale cheeks heightened and paled and heightened again in visible variations. Her slender throat fluttered with quick pulsations like that of a singing bird or a chameleon, and her deep eyes were filled with light. Katharine even fancied that the little ringlets of soft brown hair trembled and waved like the leaves of a sensitive plant, impossible as it was. Hester’s whole being was all at once intensely alive, intensely sensitive, intensely brilliant. A few minutes earlier she had been leaning back against her cushion, suppressing a yawn from time to time, saying cold and disagreeable things, pale, cool, diaphanous.

Katharine moved slightly, and the white hand was upon hers instantly, with a light touch of warning, as though to silence her, lest a single faint echo of Crowdie’s voice should fail to reach Hester’s ears.

The young girl wondered whether she herself ever behaved so strangely when John Ralston was near, and whether any one sitting beside her could see his presence reflected in her eyes. She did not know, though she believed herself, as she really was, colder and less quick to show what she felt. The last note died away as Crowdie ascended the staircase and got out of hearing, and Hester sank back against her cushion again. The colour faded from her cheek, the light died in her eyes, and her throat was quiet. The bloodless hands just met on her knees, and the tips of the slight fingers tapped one another nervously two or three times, and then lay quite still.

There had been something in the quickly succeeding changes which struck Katharine as not exactly human, though she could have found no other word with which to describe better the phases of the passing sensitiveness she had witnessed. But it had been more like the infinitive sensitiveness of nature than the ordinary responses of an impressionable woman. Katharine had thought of the sensitive plant, for she had seen many in hot-houses and had often played with them, softly stroking the fern-like plumes made by the two rows of tiny oval leaves, and delighting to see how they rose and waved, and tried to find and follow her finger. And she thought, too, of stories she had heard about the behaviour of animals before an earthquake, a great storm, or any terrible convulsion of nature. She had never before quite understood that, but it was clear to her now.

At the same time she felt a strong sympathy for Hester, and for the love which was so unmistakable and real. It was impossible for her to comprehend how such love could exist for such a man as Crowdie, whom she herself thought so strangely repulsive, though she could find nothing to say against him. It could only be explained on the ground of an elective affinity, mysterious in its source, but most manifest in its results. She had never been allowed to read Goethe’s great book, but the title of it had always meant something to her, and represented a set of ideas which she used in order to explain the inexplicable. It was true, also, so far as she could see, that between Hester and Crowdie the affinity was mutual and almost equally strong, and Katharine thought with an unpleasant sensation of the way Crowdie sometimes smiled at his wife. Of course, she thought, if one did not object to a certain amount of womanliness in a man’s looks and manner, nor to a pale, pear-shaped face with intensely red lips, nor to a figure which altogether lacked masculine dignity—if one could forget all those things and consider what Crowdie must seem to a blind woman, for instance, and if one could forgive a certain insolent softness of speech which now and then was his, why, then, Crowdie was one of the most charming of men. There was no word but that one. Take him all in all,—his remarkable power as a portrait painter, developed by study and real industry, his exquisite voice and perfect taste in singing—so perfect that there was not a trace of that art which it is art’s mission to conceal—his conversation, which was often brilliant and almost always interesting,—taking him all in all, thought Katharine, and quite apart from his appearance, he was a marvellously gifted man. She had never known a man like him. Paul Griggs was not to be despised as a judge of men, for he had seen and known many who were worth knowing, and Paul Griggs liked Crowdie and was intimate with him. It was true that no other man of Katharine’s acquaintance liked him, but Griggs’ opinion might outweigh that of many just men. But when she thought of Crowdie’s appearance, she marvelled how any woman could love him. There was something about it which thrilled her painfully, like a strong, bad taste—yet not so as to hinder her from feeling sympathy for Hester, in spite of all the latter had said during the past half hour.

“How you love him!” she exclaimed, when the voice had died away, and Hester leaned back again in her seat.

The words were spoken impulsively and half unconsciously—the natural expression of the young girl’s wonder. But Hester’s eyes turned quickly, with a suspicious glance which Katharine did not see and could not have understood.

“Well—is there any harm in my loving my husband?” asked Hester, in a tone of unmistakable resentment.

Katharine turned and looked at her in surprise, not realizing that she could possibly have given offence.

“Harm! why no—no more harm than there is in my saying so—nor than I meant, when I spoke. Why, are you angry?”

“I’m not angry. Why did you say it, though—and just then? I want to know.”

She fixed her eyes on Katharine, and a little colour came back suddenly to her cheeks, just where it had been while Crowdie was singing—as a transparent glass, that has been heated red in the flame and has cooled, flushes where it had flushed before, almost as soon as it is brought to the fire.

“Why did I say it?” repeated Katharine, surprised. “I don’t know, I’m sure. It was a very natural remark. Everybody knows that you love your husband very much. I suppose it struck me particularly at that moment. How strange of you to take offence!”

“I’m not offended. I only want to know why you said it just then. Did I change colour—or what?”

“A little colour came into your face—yes. It’s very becoming,” added Katharine, by way of propitiation.

“Yes—I know. You needn’t tell me that I’m generally too pale. Were my eyes different from usual?”

“They were very bright, with a far-away look at the same time—as though you saw him through the wall.”

“Do you think any one would have noticed how I looked? I mean—any one sitting near me, as you are?”

“I should think so—yes,” answered Katharine, without much hesitation. “I only said what any one would have thought who happened to see you just then. I didn’t think there was any harm in it. I shall certainly never say it again, since you’re displeased.”

“Oh—that doesn’t matter!” exclaimed Hester, with a little scornful laugh. “As we’re not to be friends any more, you can displease me as much as you like now. It doesn’t matter in the least!”

“How strange you are, Hester!” Katharine said, thoughtfully. “I don’t in the least understand you.”

“We never really understood each other,” replied Hester. “We only thought we did. But—as I say—since we’re not to be friends any more, it’s of no consequence.”

“You can’t say that—that we never understood each other,” said Katharine. “It’s not true.”

“Oh yes, it is! We never understood—never, what I mean by understanding. So I blush, and stare, and behave like a schoolgirl, when Walter comes in singing! I didn’t know it. I am glad you’ve told me, for I don’t like to do foolish things in public.”

“I don’t think it’s always foolish to show what one feels. It’s better to feel something, and show it, than to feel nothing at all.”

“I should think so!” Hester laughed rather contemptuously again, and glanced at Katharine’s face.

The young girl moved, as though she were about to rise,—the little preliminary movement which most women make, as a clock gives warning five minutes before it strikes. It is often a tentative measure, and there is some expectation on the part of her who moves that her friend will make at least a show of detaining her. When she does not mean to do so, she herself generally moves a little, which precipitates matters. If men could understand this, they would more often be able to understand whether they are wanted any longer or not. But, instead, they rarely give warning, but seize their hats, in countries where it is manners to carry them, and rise with one movement, giving the lady no choice about detaining them or not.

On the present occasion, as soon as Katharine moved, Hester did likewise, sitting up straight, and pushing the small tea-table a little away from her, in order to make room for herself to rise. Katharine did not fail to notice the fact, and got up at once.

“I’m sorry we can’t make it up, Hester,” she said, regretfully. “I’m sorry if we’re both changed so much in such a short time. I shouldn’t have thought it possible.”

“The world’s full of surprises,” observed Hester, rising and slipping out from behind the tea-table.

“Oh—really, Hester!” exclaimed Katharine, impatiently. “You needn’t make it worse by saying such things as that, you know!”

“What things? Isn’t it true, my dear? I’m sure I’ve found the world a very surprising place to live in. Haven’t you?”

Katharine said nothing, but turned her face away a little, and made haste over her gloves, which she had forgotten to put on before rising, in her sudden haste to get away. Hester looked down at the tea-table, and absently took up a teaspoon and moved a little leaf that lay in the bottom of the empty cup. Katharine was only just beginning to use her right hand a little, and had difficulty in buttoning the glove on her left. She tried once or twice, and then turned to Hester.

“I wish you’d button it for me,” she said. “I can’t do anything with my right hand, it’s so weak.”

She held out her left, and Hester bent over it. But before she had fastened two buttons, she started, and looked at the door. Her quick ear had caught her husband’s footfall as he came downstairs again, doubtless in search of her. She paused, and held her breath, listening, though he was not singing now. The footsteps came nearer, the handle of the door turned, and Crowdie entered the room.

“Oh—Miss Lauderdale!” he exclaimed. Then he smiled at Hester, who held out her hand, and he touched it with his lips, in a foreign fashion. “You’re not going away?” he asked, turning to Katharine again. “Just as I’ve come in. Do sit down again! Now, please give me a cup of tea, Hester—I’m tired and thirsty—and I’ve been awfully bored. Do sit down, Miss Lauderdale! Just a minute, to please me!”

“Well—I would,” answered Katharine, affecting a hesitation she did not feel, in order not to seem ungracious. “I would—but I really must be going. I’ve been here ever so long, already.”

“Yes—but you’ve got another welcome to wear out—mine,” he said, letting his voice soften and dwell on the last word.

“I really think Katharine’s in a hurry,” said Hester, who was pale.

Katharine glanced at her in some surprise. She had never in her life been so plainly told to go away, and she was inclined to resent the rudeness. She might never enter the house again, but she did not choose to be turned out of it by a woman who a few weeks earlier had professed with protestations that she was her dearest and closest friend.

“You can’t be in such a hurry as all that,” objected Crowdie, who supposed that Katharine had really said that she was pressed for time. “Besides, I’ve got something to show you.”

“Have you?” asked Katharine, suddenly glad of an excuse for staying a few moments, in spite of Hester’s anxiety to get rid of her.

Hester looked at her husband in surprise, and her finely chiselled lips moved and almost trembled.

“What do you mean, Walter?” she asked, in an uncertain tone.

“Oh—don’t you know? That head of poor uncle Robert, I did last night. I want to show it to Miss Lauderdale—she knew his face better than any of us.”

Katharine tried to detect a shade of irony in the words; but they were spoken quite naturally, without the least underthought.

“I should like to see it,” she answered, quietly, after an instant’s silence.

“I’ll get it,” said Crowdie, “if you don’t mind waiting a minute. It’s in your dressing-room, isn’t it, Hester?” he asked, turning to his wife. “You were looking at it last night, just before you went to bed. I did it late in the evening,” he added, explaining to Katharine.

“Certainly,” she replied. “I’ll wait while you get it. I should really like to see it.”

Crowdie left the room, and her eyes followed him, and she disliked the undulating, feminine swing of his walk. He was badly made, having low, sloping shoulders, and being heavy about the waist, though he was not stout. He left the door open, and the two women waited in silence, not looking at one another. A moment later they heard Crowdie moving about overhead, where Hester’s dressing-room was situated, corresponding with the sitting-room in which they were. Hester listened intently, her eyes turned upwards towards the ceiling, as though they could help her to hear.

“He can’t find it,” she said. “I’d better go and help him—he’ll never find it alone.”

She made a step towards the door, paused, and listened again. The wrathful instinct grew stronger in Katharine. She imagined that Hester had thought of going upstairs in order to escape from the unpleasantness of being alone with her a little longer.

“If you’d finish buttoning my glove,” she said, calmly, “I’ll go without waiting. I’m very sorry, but I can’t do it myself.”

Hester’s eyebrows twitched irritably, but she bent over the outstretched hand, for she could not do otherwise. A moment later Crowdie’s footstep was heard on the stairs again, and he came in through the open door.

“I’ve hunted everywhere!” he exclaimed. “I can’t think where you’ve put it. I wish you’d go and find it for me, dear. It’s awfully stupid of me, I know!”

“Oh—I know just where it is,” answered Hester. “You must have seen it—why, I set it up on the toilet-table, on one side of the looking-glass, turned to the light.”

“Well—it’s not there now,” said Crowdie, “because I’ve just looked.”

“I’m sure it’s there,” replied Hester, going towards the door. “Nobody could have moved it.”

“Go and see, darling—I assure you I’ve looked everywhere for it, and I don’t believe it’s in the room at all.”

It was one of those absurd little discussions which occur between two people, the one who has seen, and the other who believes. Hester left the room rather impetuously, being absolutely sure that she was right. She, also, left the door open behind her.

“Can’t I button your glove for you?” asked Crowdie. “I saw that Hester was doing it when I came in.”

Crowdie’s touch was intensely disagreeable to Katharine, but she held out her hand to him, in spite of the fact. Just then, she felt that she should almost prefer to let him do it, rather than let Hester help her. She was standing in the middle of the room, half turned away from the door.

“I thought you would like to see the sketch,” said Crowdie, fastening the button nearest to her wrist with his deft, pointed fingers, skilful as any woman’s. “I did it on a board last night—just a crayon thing from memory, with an old photograph to help me. Hester thought it was very like. If you approve of it, I’ll paint a picture from it.”

“I wish you would!” answered Katharine. “There never was anything good of him—I should so like to have something—”

She checked herself, having momentarily forgotten that Crowdie had been a very heavy loser, through his wife, by the decision in the case of the will, and that he could hardly be expected to make a present to one of her family, under the circumstances.

“Why do you hesitate?” he asked, pausing at the last button and looking into her face.

“Oh—because—I don’t know!” She was a little embarrassed. “I was afraid I’d spoken as though I meant to ask for the sketch.”

“You didn’t!” laughed Crowdie, softly. “You’re going to have it anyway. I made it for you.”

“I don’t believe that,” answered Katharine, quickly, but smiling. “You’re only trying to help me out of my rudeness. But it’s very generous of you to think of giving me anything, after all that’s happened.”

“Why? Do you mean about the will? Really, Miss Lauderdale, if you think I’m that sort of person—”

He stopped and laughed again, so naturally and easily that she hardly doubted his sincerity. His womanish eyes looked innocently into hers. He held her left wrist in both his hands, just as he had paused in the act of buttoning the glove.

Overhead, Hester’s light footstep was audible in the short silence that followed, as she moved about the room, searching for the sketch, which had evidently not been in the place where she had left it.

“Besides,” added Crowdie, after a short pause, “you’re not your father. And if you were,” he continued, lightly, “that wouldn’t be a reason for being horrid. The law decided it, and I suppose the law was right. Mr. Lauderdale didn’t make the law, and it gave him his rights. Hester and I shall get along just as well on what we’ve always had. I don’t complain. Of course it would be nice to buy Greek islands, and play with marble palaces and Oriental luxury. But after all, I’m a painter. I suppose it’s an assumption, or a boast, or something. But I don’t care—before you—I like painting, and I should always paint, and I should always want to sell my pictures, if I had a hundred millions. What could Hester and I do with five or six hundred thousand a year? That would have been about our share. I shouldn’t feel like myself, if I didn’t earn money by what I do. I suppose you can’t understand that, can you?”

“Oh yes, I can,” answered Katharine, quickly. “I understand it, and I like it in you. It’s because you’re not an amateur that you feel like that.”

“I’m not exactly an amateur,” said Crowdie, with a smile. “As for the sketch, or the picture, if I paint it, they’re yours. You were the old gentleman’s favourite, and it’s right that you should have a portrait of him—that is—if you’ll accept it.”

“Thank you very much. I don’t know about taking it, exactly—it’s much too generous of you.”

She knew what Crowdie’s work was worth, for he was a very successful man at portrait painting, and he had never seemed to care much for any other variety of the art. He was more or less of a specialist in his own department, but so far as he went, he brought an amount of experience and a richness of conception to bear upon what he did, which had carried him beyond most rivals. Possibly he had not in him the stuff which makes the greatest artists—the manly, ascetic, devoted nature which has in it a touch of the fanatic, the absolute concentration of all faculties upon a single but many-sided task. He was, in a way, the product of the age, an artist and a good one, but a specialist—an expert in the painting of portraits. All his gifts favoured and strengthened the tendency.

“I don’t see anything generous in offering you one of my daubs!” he laughed, in answer to what Katharine had said last. “Hester can’t find it—I knew it wasn’t where she said it was,” he added, after a short pause, during which he listened for his wife’s footstep.

“Please button the last button, too,” said Katharine, who had listened also, but had heard nothing. “You’re so awfully clever at it.”

“Am I?” he asked, still smiling. “This is evidently my day of grace and favour in your royal eyes.”

His beautiful voice had an inflection of something like tenderness in it, which displeased Katharine. She pushed his hands lightly with hers as he held it, to remind him of what he was doing.

“Please button it!” she said, a little imperiously, and looking at the button in question as she spoke, but quite conscious of his eyes.

He inclined his head dutifully, after gazing at her an instant longer, and then bent over the hand again and quietly slipped the button through the button-hole, touching it very delicately and in evident fear of tightening the glove so as to pinch her arm. Gloves with buttons chanced to be the fashion just then, in an interval between two fits of the Biarritz gauntlet. When he had performed the little operation, he glanced at each of the others in turn, touching each with his finger, while Katharine watched him carelessly. Then, before she could withdraw her hand, he bent his head a little more and lightly kissed the button at her wrist, releasing it instantly.

Katharine drew it back almost before he had let it go, with a quick movement of displeasure.

“Don’t do that!” she cried, in a low voice.

But as he raised his head Crowdie turned ashy pale. Even his lips lost some of their over-brilliant colour, and his eyes lost their light. Hester had descended the stairs noiselessly and stood in the open door, her face whiter than his. As their glances met, she dropped the sheet of pasteboard she held in one hand by her side, and steadied herself against the door-post. Katharine turned quickly and saw her. It did not strike the young girl that such agitation could be due to having seen what Crowdie had done. Katharine herself had been annoyed, but, after all, it was an innocent offence, she thought, especially for a man who had lived long abroad, and could not be supposed to attach much importance to the act of touching a glove with his lips, when he had been long familiar with the custom of kissing a lady’s hand instead of shaking it at meeting and parting, if the hand were offered to him.

“Why, Hester!” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“No—it’s nothing,” answered Hester, twisting her lips to form the words. “Here’s the drawing. I ran—I’m out of breath.”

She held it out as she spoke, and Crowdie took it from her mechanically. His hand trembled as he did so, for he was a coward. Hester turned from them both and went to the open window. She lifted one hand and rested it on the sash at the level of her head. They could not see that the other was pressed to her heart, for she kept the elbow close to her side. Crowdie was still pale and trembling, and he glanced uneasily towards her, as he held up the drawing to Katharine to look at.

“Give it to me,” said the young girl, unconsciously speaking in a low voice. “Your hand shakes.”

She began to wonder exactly what had taken place, and could find no explanation except Crowdie’s small offence. Instantly, she understood that Hester was desperately jealous of her. It sometimes takes longer to understand such things in real life, when they are very far from one’s thoughts, than to guess them from the most meagre description of what has taken place. Katharine almost laughed when she realized the truth. She looked intently at the drawing.

“It’s wonderfully like!” she exclaimed, feeling that matters would be worse if she did not express some admiration of the work, though she found it hard to concentrate her attention upon the familiar features. “Especially the”—she did not know what she was saying—“the beard,” she added, completing her sentence.

“Ah, yes—the beard—as you say,” responded Crowdie, in a rather tremulous tone, and glancing at his wife’s figure. Then he laughed very nervously. “Yes—the beard’s like, isn’t it?” he said.

“Oh, very!” answered Katharine, looking quickly at Hester and then intently at the pasteboard again. “Every hair—”

“Yes.” And Crowdie tried to laugh again, as though it would help him. “There are hairs in the pasteboard, too—sticking up here and there—it helps the illusion, doesn’t it?”

“Why, so there are!” Katharine looked at the drawing in silence for a moment and collected herself. “The expression’s very good,” she said. “I like a picture when the eyes look right at you.”

She raised her own mechanically as she spoke, and she realized how white he was. She held out the drawing to him.

“Thanks, so much,” she said. “I’m glad to have seen it. It was so good of you. I really must be going now. It’s getting late.”

He took the drawing and laid it carefully upon the table, with the instinctive forethought of the artist for the safety of his work.

“Good-bye, Hester,” said Katharine, moving a step towards the window.

Hester turned abruptly. There were deep shadows under her eyes, and there was a bright colour in her face now, but not like that which had come to it when her husband had passed the door, singing. As she stood with her back against the bright light of the window, however, Katharine could hardly distinguish her features.

“Oh—good-bye,” said Hester in a strange, cold voice, not moving and not holding out her hand.

But Katharine extended her own, for she entirely refused to be treated as though she had injured her friend, just as a little while earlier, she had chosen to stay a few minutes rather than to take a hint so broad that it sounded like an order to go. She went nearer to the window.

“Good-bye, Hester,” she repeated, holding out her hand in such a way that Hester could not refuse to take it.

And Hester took it, but dropped it again instantly. Katharine nodded quietly, turned, nodded again to Crowdie in exactly the same way, and passed out through the open door, calmly and proudly, being quite sure that she had done nothing to be ashamed of. She knew, at the moment, that all hope of ever renewing her friendship was gone, at least for the present, and she regretted the fact to the last minute, and was willing to show that she did. Hester’s behaviour had been incomprehensible from the first, and it was still a mystery to Katharine when she left the house. One thing only was clear, and that was the woman’s uncontrollable jealousy during the little scene which had taken place. The idea of connecting that jealousy with former events never crossed the young girl’s mind, and of finding an original cause for it in the fact of Crowdie’s having sung at Mrs. Bright’s on a certain evening three weeks earlier. Still less could she have guessed that it had begun long ago, during the preceding winter, when she had sat for her portrait in Crowdie’s studio, while Hester lay extended upon the divan where she could watch her husband’s face, and note every passing look of admiration that crossed it, as he of necessity studied the features of his model. Such an idea was altogether too far removed from Katharine, in her ignorance of human nature—as far as Hester’s passion for her husband, which went beyond the limits of what the young girl had ever dreamed of in its excessive sensitiveness.

Katharine closed the front door behind her and went out into the street. As she descended the neat white stone steps she was close to the open windows of the little sitting-room and could have heard anything which might have been said within. But no sound of voices reached her. She could not help glancing over her shoulder towards the window, as she turned away, and she could see that Hester was still standing with her back to it, as she had stood when Katharine had insisted upon taking leave of her.

She walked slowly homewards, wondering what was taking place since she had left the two together, and going over in her mind the details of the scene. She remembered Crowdie’s face very distinctly. She was not sure that she had ever in her life seen a man badly frightened before, and it had produced a very vivid impression upon her at the time. And she recalled the picture of Hester, standing in the doorway, the pasteboard at her feet, and her hand raised to support herself against the doorway. She had heard of ‘domestic tragedies,’ as they are called in the newspapers, and she wondered whether they ever began in that way.