Until the end of the week Evarne posed for Jack Hardy alone. She had now acquired an entirely fresh interest and new importance in that young man's eyes, and he exerted himself to amuse and cheer her during these early days of separation. Geoffrey was not much mentioned between them. Prudence on the one side, and an instinctive restraint on the other, prevented this. Nevertheless, Evarne was conscious of an added loss when she left this studio to sit for a woman artist, and her surroundings were no longer imbued with the magnetism of the absent one.

But letters from Geoff promptly proceeded to rain down upon her. Within twenty-four hours of his quitting London came a brief note, and apparently his first act on reaching Venice was to write to her for the second time.

"I shall let four full days go by before I answer," she decided. But ere that time had passed, a third very lengthy epistle had arrived, which concluded with the gentlest of reproaches for her unkind negligence in not replying sooner. Thus, when she did sit down after supper one evening to write her first letter to Geoffrey, many pages covered with his handwriting were spread out before her gaze.

The correspondence thus commenced rapidly developed into the most engrossing, enthralling, and delightful feature in the existence of these two. They exchanged ideas, sympathies, experiences, hopes and fears; and their uttermost frankness on any and every subject but served to show with increased emphasis how harmonious were their innermost natures, how naturally their minds trod the same paths.

Both wrote well and easily, although for some time Evarne, with true feminine discretion, retained a firm grip upon the too frank display of the strength of her affection for Geoffrey. But the days in which she forbade her written words to adequately express what she felt were very speedily left behind. As to the young man himself, all his cautious scruples had exhausted themselves in leading him out of England. From the first he was troubled by few restrictions, and within a month he was avowedly writing love letters.

He had never made any abrupt and startling declaration of his feelings, let alone of his intentions. It was just a case of swift yet easy drifting. He appeared to deem it a matter of course that Evarne knew and recognised the fact that he loved her, and that all else was to be taken for granted. She was both amused and attracted by this simple and unobtrusive change in their correspondence from comparative formality to tender truth. She expressed no surprise, but took it all quietly and without comment. Indeed, it seemed really but a natural and ordinary thing that she and Geoffrey should acknowledge their love. It was a continuance of a pretence of mere friendship between them that would have seemed extraordinary. To abandon any disguise was not only easy and comforting—it was instinctive.

Thus all those fresh vague thoughts, those dominating and ardent emotions that love brings into being, and which suppression causes to torture the brain wherein they are conceived, were granted free scope and outlet in the heart-to-heart letters that they wrote so gladly one to another. And their love grew and strengthened steadily from this use and outgiving.

It had been some time before Evarne had got to the point of responding with equal frankness to Geoff's ardent epistles, but she did arrive at last.

"You tell me to think of you, Geoff," she sat happily writing one evening. "I do, indeed I do, remember you as steadily as even you yourself could possibly desire. To say I think of you every hour is not enough—you are never out of my mind or my heart, night and day. I don't mean that I think actively and consciously of you quite all the time, but the sense of your personality, the deep thought of you, is incessantly with me. It has become a part of my mind, I fancy; for I think of you without realising it, simultaneously with thinking deliberately of other matters.

"Have no fear. I love you—love you utterly! I never seem to get tired now, however long the day; for the hours fade into nothingness in dreams of you. You know how ready all we lazy models are to jump down from the throne directly 'time' is called? Now I often surprise people by not moving when the magic word is spoken. I have not heard it, for I have been—where?—out in Venice—or in Paradise—I know not; but wherever the place may be, I have been with you! How, then, can I be expected to hear, unless people shout to startle me back to earth? In the 'rests' I read as usual, or, to be exact, not as usual; for often on reaching the end of a page I become aware that I know nothing at all of what it is about—the thought of you, my dear tormentor, has come 'twixt me and the words, and for very shame's sake I have had to start again and try to banish you for just a few minutes."

"Whatever you find to say to Mr. Danvers is more than I can make out," declared Philia, as Evarne, having completed writing her letter, proceeded to put its pages into order. "You scribbles sheets and sheets, and every day almost—why, you writes books, and 'e's as bad. If I was the postman I wouldn't 'ave it! Now, jist look at the size of that billy-do."

The young woman made a little grimace.

"It is rather long, isn't it? But the difficulty does not lie in finding what to say. It is in obliging one's self to stop."

"Are you goin' to marry 'im, Evarne?"

"I—I suppose that is an allowable question? I don't.... No! I believe—how can I tell? I never think of anything ahead."

"Give me somethin' I can swoller better'n that. 'Ow startled you look. What's to prevent?"

"Marrying! That's—oh, he will marry someone of his own rank."

"Go on with yer. Ain't you a laidy—a perfect laidy, says I?"

"I'm an artist's model. Nothing more nor less," was the somewhat haughtily spoken rejoinder.

"Then I 'opes to goodness you'll be careful what yer writes. It's a jolly dangerous game, I tell yer, puttin' silly talk into writin' and then chuckin' it into the pillar-box. Lord only knows what may come to it before it's safely burned or tored up."

Evarne smiled.

"You unromantic old dear! What harm do you think can come of it?"

"'E could spoil your chance, if 'e was so minded, with any other gentleman as might want to marry yer."

"That doesn't frighten me. Is there nothing else?"

"'Ow can I tell? I ain't no Mother Shipton. But I knows well enough it ain't a wise thing for a girl to do. There ain't a day as passes without reckless letters making trouble for someone or other."

"Is it an equally unwise proceeding for men too?"

"Yes, my gosh, it jist is. Never 'eard of breach o' promise cases? Nobody didn't ought to trust nobody in this 'ere wicked world. If yer contents yerself with jist speaking like an idjit, you can always deny it afterwards——"

"Oh!"

"But when you've bin and gorn and acted like a born natural, by puttin' the stuff into writin', well, 'tain't no use denying it then. You're done for. 'Out damned lines'—Shakespeare! But they don't come out—not for all the cussin' and swearin' in the world."

Evarne laughed outright.

"That's true enough. I know it, and of course Geoff must know it too."

"Oh, 'e's a hartist. They don't know nothin', none of 'em."

"Geoff knows he can trust me, Philia, and I value and appreciate the blessed belief he shows in me by writing as he does. Perfect love casteth out fear of every description. He believes that I shall know the right thing to do with regard to his letters, and that I shall ever and always do it."

"It don't need much wit for anyone to know they're safe in your 'ands, my dear. But do you write to 'im jist all that comes into yer 'ead, trustin' 'im to know the right thing to do, and do it?"

"Indeed yes—oh yes!"

"That's the very frame o' mind as ruins 'undreds o' girls. You git rid of it, my dear."

"I won't. I shan't even try. No"—and a wilful head was shaken vigorously—"I shan't pay any attention to your sage advice, not the—least—little bit. Not trust Geoff absolutely and entirely! Why, I'd as soon mistrust myself. Though I ought to know better by now—oh, indeed, I ought!"

Bitter thoughts of past blind trust made ridiculous, brought a note of anguish to the low, sweet voice. But she went on almost defiantly—

"I like to write to him recklessly, and without a single thought of possible future regret. It pleases me to think that he possesses letters of mine that people might say a woman should only have written to the man who was to be her husband. I like to feel that he and I are, to a certain extent, in one another's power—dependent each on the other's honour. Through those letters he has seen into the innermost recesses of my soul, in a way that no other human being has done. Think, when you truly love, of the delight that lies in such abandonment. But don't you trouble, Philia. I've not told him everything—not shown him quite the full extent of all I feel for him. There is still plenty in reserve. There remain sealed chambers that will not open readily."

"Well, everyone must go their own ways in sich matters. 'Tain't no use advisin'. Common sense and love never seems to flourish longside o' one another, more's the pity."

"You see, love is not a question of 'reason.' It is just 'unreason.' Surely it is better to grasp that truth at once, and so reconcile one's self to thinking and acting quite unreasonably?"

"Oh, you silly young fool!" snorted Philia as she lit her candle preparatory to retiring to bed.

On the threshold of the door she stopped and looked back; Evarne was gazing across at her with a sweet smile playing around her eyes and lips. The old woman shook her fist in the air.

"You silly young——" She stopped abruptly, sighed, and shook her head portentously. Then in a changed voice: "My gosh, but 'ow I envies yer!"

She banged the door violently, and went slowly upstairs. Evarne remained for a few minutes rapt in deep thought. Then, rousing herself, she pressed each individual page of her letter to her lips, folded it up with scrupulous care and exactness, and went out to the post.

Many a year had passed since she had known such perfect peace and satisfaction as that which now coloured and perfumed the routine of her days. Living in the present only, she held in her clasp practically all that is needed for happiness. Since her first success as a model she had suffered no physical deprivation such as had characterised that hateful year spent at needlework, but only now were her emotional and intellectual requirements equally and at one time satisfied.

This voluminous correspondence with Geoff was in every way delightful. They thought and wrote much upon topics not altogether personal, Evarne bringing her whole intellect as well as her heart to bear upon the composition of her letters, and, for the first time for many years, revelling in communion with a mind at least equally as reflective and well-informed as was her own.

"What should I have done," she wondered, as she dropped her letter into the pillar-box, "supposing that, loving Geoff as I do, he had not cared for me, and had never wanted to write? I should have died! I don't mean really and truly, I suppose, but my heart would have drooped, my hope and energy and happiness would have faded. I can never be too grateful to him—no, never—for saving me from so much suffering." Then she smiled softly. "Sekhet is gracious and good to me again!"

She walked home with that free, light step that betokens unlimited vitality and buoyancy of spirit. First-love may be indeed unique, unapproachable, but that which is born later in life—the emotion springing from the rich, ripe heart and brain, the ardent affection of the human being in the fullest physical and mental perfection—is every whit as dominating, and it is more inspiring, ample and satisfying than that which came when the heart was young and life a fairy-tale. Evarne had blossomed forth afresh beneath this renewal of love, which had led her again from the monotony of shade out into the vivifying heat of the sun and the glory of white light.

The power of intense loving was perhaps her greatest and most perfect force. It was not of the type that can be portioned out into a series of petty passions. Since Morris died to her, she had met with none other who held the secret by which to possess himself of that unlimited fund of devotion lying dormant and neglected. Some of her best and most desirable years had melted away devoid of all emotional interests, and simply to feel herself loved—to have her long-unneeded capacity for loving called again into active use—was all-sufficient to create the most perfect happiness.

Her whole nature reawoke, rejoiced and sang, not merely because her love was returned—though from that certainty sprang triumph and the sweet exaltation ever attendant upon this greatest of all possible successes—but because she herself once more gave her love lavishly. For the present this was all-sufficient. She rarely thought of what must be its result—what ultimate end could be attained. Blinded by the light of the never-setting brilliance that now lit her path, she could see clearly only what was close at hand, and that was indeed fair. She would not look backwards over that long stretch of desert-land to where lay that dark and fearful forest, with its hidden morasses, evil haunts and poisoned plants through which, led by the hand of Sekhet in cruel mood, her track had passed long since. Against her better judgment, against her will even, Hope unfurled his wings again within her breast. Why endeavour to look forward into the ever-shrouded and unknowable future? She lived only for the present, and in that she rejoiced.