At the end of three months she sat again to Jack Hardy. He wrote an imploring appeal that she would somehow contrive to spare time for him just to put her arms and hands into a wondrous allegorical picture he was painting. She did arrange it, for not only were all Geoff's friends her special care, but she wanted to behold that dear studio again. She was also rather curious to see young Frank Pallister, of whom Geoffrey had spoken as sharing it with Jack during its rightful owner's absence.

She found him to be a rosy, fair-haired, somewhat smartly-clad youth, looking even younger than his twenty careless years. His work was distinctly promising, but at present quite elementary—very much that of an Art-student. Still, he was but a boy, and, being fairly well-to-do, would probably not have fretted over his still sadly low standard of execution had he not been goaded onwards by a gadfly of another type from that by which Jack was so constantly harried.

In one of the smartest squares in the West-end of London resided a certain dainty damsel with a stern, unreasonable dragon of a father. Maudie Meridith, in her seventeen-year-old wisdom, fully agreed with Pallister that they were both of ample age to be at least engaged—even if not actually married. Stern, prosaic dragon of a father begged to differ. After many prayers, many pleadings, he had given vent to this appalling ultimatum—

"When you can show me your name in the catalogue of any of the big exhibitions, my boy, I'll consent to your engagement with this baby. Otherwise, you will have to wait until she is actually twenty years of age. Cruelty to children, isn't it? Be off with you both, and don't bother me again."

The youthful suitor had confided this unheard-of tyranny to Geoff, for whom he cherished an affectionate admiration. The response had been to the effect that if Pallister was wise he would not shoot himself or even sink into a decline, but would see about endeavouring to fulfil the conditions that would shorten these three years of probation.

"If, as you say, you are unalterably convinced that Art schools keep you back, you had better go and work every day in my studio," Geoff had written. "It is a big one, as you know, and only Jack Hardy is there at present. You would find him an enormous help to you—but don't bother him, there's a good lad. If you want to try your hand at a picture right away, there is ample room on the throne for two models; if you think a few months hard preliminary work would be of most value, you can make studies from Jack's model. Good luck to you in any case."

This kind offer had been accepted, and every morning Pallister punctually appeared and painted away steadily for a few hours. He did not know the meaning of real hard work, but under the influence of Jack's friendly aid and advice he certainly improved week by week.

Evarne found a certain satisfaction in being again in Geoff's own home, despite his absence, and although his name was scarcely mentioned. On the wall was a painting of him done by Jack a year or so previously. It was a marvellously good likeness, although the background and accessories were unfinished. Portrait-painting was Jack's forte, would he but have believed it.

"I'm going to smuggle away that picture of Mr. Danvers when you are not looking," declared Evarne; whereupon Jack, when he paid her at the conclusion of her sittings, smilingly handed her also the canvas in question already tied up to be taken away.

She hung it in her room, with a little bracket on either side, whereon stood vases which she kept filled with fresh flowers. Night and morning she pressed a gentle kiss upon the painted lips.

"Come back soon, Geoff—come back soon," she once whispered impulsively. And perhaps her wish was wafted away over land and sea to the City in the Waters, for within four months of leaving England Geoff had endured quite sufficient of this test of absence. Thus he wrote:

"Dearest, dearest beyond all expression

"I am returning home the day after to-morrow! Sweetest lady that heart ever adored, I am coming back to see you, to breathe the same air with you, to tread the same pavements, to kiss your hands, your lips, your feet.

"Will you welcome me? I left England loving you.... I thought, to the uttermost of my capacity. Perhaps it was so then; but now I love you ... oh, infinitely more ... because I think of you always.... your exquisite letters have taught me to know you far more perfectly; and all knowledge, all thinking, leads only to fresh love.

"In a way, I shrink from meeting you again. I am fearful now. In you is all the good and true, the pure and beauteous. How can I or any man be worthy of you? Suppose, after a while, I read disappointment in your face?

"But be kind to me, gentle and compassionate. I kneel at your feet, and beg you to give yourself to me and to take me for your own, heart and mind and body, for ever and ever. No other woman could ever be my wife, Evarne, for no other woman could I love.

"May God bless you!

"Geoff."

Evarne let this letter drop on the table, then bowed her head upon it in silence.

"What—what am I to do?" she murmured after a long pause, filled with a turmoil of mingled bliss and suffering. Had she been perfectly free to follow the promptings of her own heart, not one moment for reflection would have been needed. As it was, a secret indestructible, albeit so well-guarded—seemed to rise up as a hideous, pitiless spectre, bidding her set aside any idea of a future spent with Geoffrey.

"I see now—didn't I know it before?—I ought never, never, to have let him grow to care so much for me," she thought, weighed down by genuine though somewhat tardy remorse.

She saw that utter selfishness had ruled her so far, with the result that now it was not only—not chiefly—her own happiness that was at stake, but that of one for whom no sacrifice could be too great to be sweet.

In the abstract, the memory of the three years she had spent with Morris Kenyon formed no burden upon her conscience. Versed in the secrets of her own heart—strong in the certain knowledge of the generous, even if misguided, motives that had prevailed with her—she had been absolved at the bar of her most earnest and sincere judgment from all stain of deliberate doing of evil. How was it possible that she should find cause to reproach or condemn herself, remembering that supreme hour of test, when she had held so loyally fast to her innate convictions of what was right and what was not; when she had refused to barter a mockery of love for the reality of continued wealth and protection? She thought, too, of her life since then, chaste amid greater temptations than a man would ever realise. Deep in her heart was the feeling that she had been tried and not found wanting. Surely, then, she was every whit as fitted as any ordinarily spotless woman to marry a good man?

Still, so long as the likelihood of such a desire on her part had seemed far remote, she had been firmly convinced that she would never allow herself to become a wife with her secret unconfessed. But now she was faced by a problem—a torturing doubt—that was quite unforeseen. Would it not be morally a greater wickedness, an additional wrong, should she remorselessly shatter such perfect trust; smear and deface the happiness of this man who loved her so ardently, revered and honoured her with such glad confidence?

Was it indeed Honour's command that she should dig up this loathsome, long-buried corpse, to thrust it under those very nostrils wherein it would most stink? Was such a cruel and unscrupulous bowing down to the conventional idea of right and wrong unquestionably Love's duty? She had never been much guided by mere convention. Was she to begin now when so much was at stake? Surely not.

She started suddenly from her chair in bewilderment and distress, and commenced to pace the room. What ought she to do? Earnestly she tried to put all care for herself and for her own desires out of her mind—to think only of Geoff. Setting great importance upon the emotional side of life, she scarcely heeded any difference of position that might exist between herself and him. Unconscious of his future prospects, believing his marriage to be a matter concerning himself alone, her one doubt and difficulty lay in how best to cope with her hidden past.

Reason and common sense bade her guard her secret in silence, now and forever. But her feelings told her plainly enough that never could she hope to know perfect peace until she had confessed this thing—confessed, implored and obtained forgiveness. But would that not be an end of all peace of mind for Geoffrey—ah, poor Geoff! She had learnt his nature so well. His was a love that gloried in placing the beloved upon a lofty height, there to be crowned with stars and worshipped. Could she thrust him out of his paradise?

If she shattered his natural and spontaneous love, would a fresh type, all unknown to him now—that which is founded on pity and kindly indulgence—rise from out the ruins? Suppose not? What if that other kind of love—tender and divine though it may be—was impossible for him? She did not fear that he would repulse her cruelly and scornfully—that he could never do, surely. But suppose his love was killed, while hers remained alive? Ah! Merciful heavens!

With eyes filled by a sudden horror she stopped short before the painting of Geoff that hung upon the wall. Long she gazed, and her wild glance grew gentle with unutterable affection—with an almost maternal yearning. Would life be endurable were it not henceforth consecrated to this man? Ten thousand times no! Both heart and intellect anguished to be allowed full scope to expend their uttermost capacities in the service of love.

And was she not verily endowed with gifts both mental and physical that would enable her to make existence infinitely more delightful, more full, interesting and complete for him, than could possibly be his lot with Art for his sole mistress? Surely herein lay her foreordained life's work? Who could be so cruel, so pitiless, as to wish her to be made an outcast from this her heritage? She stretched forth her hands imploringly to the dear pictured face. Would he wish it? Oh, surely not! She felt now that her very cause for existence was explained—she had discovered the end whereunto she had been created—the duty for which she had been placed on earth, and for the more perfect fulfilment of which every previous experience of her life, glad or sorry, had been but essential preliminary training.

Geoff was sweet-natured indeed, and ever kindly, yet all artistic temperaments need understanding. It would require true insight and discretion, perchance a deal of patience and forbearance, to render any lifelong union naught but an added inspiration, an unfailing stimulus, an additional happiness to this now ardent lover. Could there be any other woman more fitted to this task than she was herself—more capable of taking Geoff's whole existence into her tender keeping, and thereby blessing and enriching it day by day?

Surely if he never learnt this—her one and only secret—it would be impotent as if it had no existence? And never would it be revealed to him by outside agency; at least, so far as human foresight could discern. Who among those who had known the truth in those bygone years was in the least likely to again cross her path? Not a single individual. Surely it would be well for Geoffrey to be so far deceived—to be tricked, and, if necessary, lied to on this one point? Would not his ultimate greatest happiness be thereby ensured? Since he wished her for his wife, should he not have his will? Looking to her unhesitatingly for all the good and true, the pure and beauteous in womanhood—was he to be disillusioned?

Long and earnestly she reflected, endeavouring to weigh impartially and fairly every argument favouring confession. If Geoffrey could know, would he deem this secrecy to be her crowning blemish—the greatest, most personal and unforgivable wrong of all? Not if he could read her heart, and judge by her motives. Her own welfare was indeed not first in her mind. The shielding of his happiness was verily her chief thought. Alas, that deception should be necessary for its preservation—yet surely this was so? Alas! alas!

At length the final doubt ceased to clamour. The decision had been protracted and difficult. It left her lovely face somewhat drawn and pale; but in her soft, eloquent eyes gleamed a light almost superhuman in its intensity of love and desperate resolution.

"What would I not do, dare, defy for your sake, my best and dearest?" she murmured aloud. "Never, while I have strength and power to ward it off, will I bring grief and suffering and agony of mind into your life. Never!"