By six o'clock the sedentary occupation had become too trying. Evarne changed her dressing-gown for a coat and skirt, and went out.

All this erratic behaviour caused Philia not a little concern and alarm. As a general rule Evarne was so very placid and level-headed, that this disregard of all precedent, this wandering about in the dark and sleeping in the daylight, this neglect of work, meals at extraordinary hours, and all the rest of the disorganising of respectable routine, was not an occurrence to be treated lightly. Still, in Philia's experience of human nature, directly a girl must needs go and fall in love, troubles and upsets and excitements followed as an inevitable corollary, while calm quiet contentment took unto itself wings. Thus she did not consider the root-cause of the present state of affairs to be enshrouded in unsolvable mystery. Although she was rather hurt at not being made a confidante, she evinced no curiosity, being fairly satisfied that clouds of such a nature almost always pass away in due course.

But when half an hour later she answered a knock at the door and discovered Geoff, she greeted him with anything but an amiable countenance.

"How is she now?" he inquired.

"Guess she's better agin, for she's gorn out to git a breath o' fresh air. Will yer please to step in and wait. I dare say she would like to see yer when she comes back."

Needing no second invitation, Geoff followed Mrs. Harbert into the house.

The pretty little sitting-room was full of Evarne's personality. Here were the flowers he had brought her; here too were her books, her drawing-board, her writing-case; there was the embroidered footstool on which she had sat during his previous visit. Everything sang to him of Evarne. There were the really charming pictures on the walls, signed with her initials, that she had amazed him by showing as her own handiwork. There was her little work-box, and across it lay the long strip of embroidery on which he had seen her diligently creating silken blossoms. Moved by a sudden longing to hold in his hand something that she had touched, Geoff picked up this and surveyed it with the minute scrutiny of an apparent connoisseur in art needlework.

Philia was speaking to him somewhat reproachfully. She imagined that now, having the culprit under her thumb, she could, with all due regard for politeness, give him a "piece of her mind."

"I must tell yer first that I ain't bin told who it is worryin' my pore gal, but I warrant if they'd bin 'ere to see 'er last night they'd 'ave bin fair ashamed of themselves. She was roamin' the 'ouse like a wanderin' spirit, and in the mornin' she was jist as white as 'er nightgown. It seems to me that to make anyone really un'appy without rhyme or reason—and I won't believe Evarne is in the wrong—as I was sayin', to make anyone real miserable is a big thing to 'ave on one's mind in this 'ere world o' sin and woe, full o' the slings and arrers of houtrageous fortune as it is—Shakespeare! In plain talk, sir, a world where we're all certain to 'ave quite enough trouble to digest without them as we cares for most forcin' a hextry dose down our gullets. And no stray flowers, nor even rings nor sich-like, makes up for unkindness—not to the noble mind—Shakespeare! I've lived with Evarne for five years and more, and she's never 'ad one hour's sorrow through my fault. Hexcuse me if I'm takin' liberties I didn't ought, but you've bin 'ome from foreign parts less than a week, and for some reason or other now she's made fair miserable—by someone or other! I'm not sayin' by who, but it's very 'ard for me to see it and not say nothin' at all."

Philia paused, somewhat apprehensive at having thus let her feelings carry her away. But Geoff was not displeased by this ardent championship.

"My dear Mrs. Harbert," he said seriously, "if it is my fault—and to a certain extent I'm afraid it is—believe me that it was both unintentional and indirect. Evarne shall never have a moment's trouble that I can save her from, be very sure of that."

He walked to the window and looked out.

"I wonder where she is now?" he went on. "Do you think she will be long?"

"Can't say where she is. She jist says, 'It's suffocatin' indoors,' she says, and out she goes. Most likely she'll be back by seven. Anyway, I'm due at the 'Poly' at 'alf-past."

"You've always posed, haven't you, Mrs. Harbert?"

Philia was decidedly a trifle aggrieved by this query, and answered in wounded tones—

"Now, sir, if yer was a few years older, yer wouldn't need to ask that. There was a time when every hartist in London knew all about Philadelphia 'Arbert, and it wasn't sich a great time ago either."

"Evidently I don't know much?" queried Geoff with a good-natured smile.

The reply was certainly cutting.

"You never 'eard tell of Philadelphia 'Arbert as a model, and you don't know 'ow to keep yer sweet'eart's eyes dry. Well, sir, askin' yer pardin', but you 'ave got somethin' to learn!"

The young man bit his lip and did not answer. This silence melted his outspoken critic immediately, and she set to work to be amiable.

"Hexcuse me if I'm rather sharp, but it is 'ard to 'ave bin famous once and to find yer 'ard-earned fame all gorn. Why, I can remember the time when any hartist gentlemen as wanted to bring Venus or any other of them 'eathen young women into a picture, didn't feel 'e'd done all he could to 'elp 'imself until 'e'd got me to pose for 'im. That's a fact, sir! I'd a lovely figger when I was a gal. None o' the young women now, only exceptin' Evarne, comes up to what models was in my young days, and I—well, my gosh! I've 'ad a long string o' great painters waitin' their turn till I was disengaged and could oblige."

"It must have been both pleasant and profitable to be in such demand."

Mrs. Harbert looked down with becoming modesty, and smoothed her apron as she replied—

"Well, sir, it was, but I never let myself get huppish about it. I was only as the Lord chose to make me. I used to say sometimes, 'Beauty is as beauty does,' and 'Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower; lost, faded'—I forget the rest—'within the hour'—Shakespeare. I've sat for Lord Leighton and Millais and Watts and 'eaps of others."

"Then you have posed for some quite well-known pictures, I suppose?"

"My gosh! a picture painted in those days, when Hart was properly understood, 'adn't much chance of bein' thought 'ighly of if the hartist 'adn't taken care to git me to collaborate with 'im."

"Now, that's a really original idea of yours, Mrs. Harbert—that a painter and his model collaborate. Did you tell it to the men you sat for, and what did they say?"

"Well, sir, truth is, I doubt if any of the hartists that I've 'elped to gain positions they'd never 'ave got to without me, would be willin' to acknowledge it. But there, that's only the way o' the world. Shakespeare 'e wrote a song about hingratitude, as I dare say you've 'eard sung."

"Isn't it very interesting to be able to look back on the famous pictures you've posed for?" inquired Geoff, with another fleeting glance out of the window.

"It is that! Why, I was that proud the first time I was in a picture that was the 'it of the season. I was 'Harry—Harry—hadney.'"

"Whom?"

"Ain't yer never 'eard of 'er, pore gal? She's bin deserted on a island by some skulkin' brute, so she knelt down with next to nothin' on, and 'eld out both 'er 'ands to the sea. It was like this."

Rendered enthusiastic by her reminiscences, Philia sank down on the carpet, leant forward, flung back her head and imploringly extended both her hands. The effect had probably been charming when the model was youthful and fair, but now it put a severe demand on Geoff's good manners not to smile at the old dame.

"It was real touchin'," she declared, as she rose to her feet with some difficulty, "but it nearly gave me 'ousemaid's knee! Then there was another picture that made a lot o' talk. It was called the 'Race of Hatalanta.' She was runnin' fit to catch the last train 'ome. I shan't forget that pose in a 'urry. My gosh, I can't even think of it without my left leg beginnin' to ache!"

At this moment the street door was heard to open. According to her usual custom Evarne had let herself in with her latchkey.

"There she is," said Philia, and stepping out into the passage she announced in somewhat triumphant tones, "There's a gentleman 'ere waitin' to see yer, dearie."

After an interval of somewhat unaccountable duration, Evarne appeared in the doorway. As she beheld Geoff her whole expression changed, her lips parted into a smile, her eyes lit up.

"Oh, it is you! I am so very glad, so delighted!" she gasped.

"Well, I won't be hintrudin' no longer," declared Philia as she left the room.

But her absence or presence was unmarked at that moment. Evarne was in Geoff's arms, and each was gazing at the other as if years of separation had intervened between this moment and their last meeting.

"I am so very glad you have come," declared Evarne again. "You cannot tell how badly I have wanted you. I felt as if I should die if I couldn't see you! Do you know where I have been? No, how should you? I have been to your studio! I don't mean upstairs, but I walked past and looked up at the window. I hoped you might just happen to look out. I did want you so much; I wanted comforting so badly."

"Evarne, every time I see you, you make me love you even more devotedly than I did before. But how truly wicked to want to see me, and not send a message at once. I have been thinking about you every minute of the day. Dearest, tell me, are you worrying so sadly about anything Winborough said?"

"It is the whole thing—the whole business. Oh, why could you not have been poor? Why could not you have been just an ordinary person, so that we could have lived for one another, without anyone having either the wish or the right to interfere? I am so afraid of your cousin—and worse still, I know that everyone will be on his side. I feel the force of the entire world against me, and it's crushing."

"But we can safely defy the whole world to weaken our love for one another, can't we, my best and dearest?"

She wrenched herself suddenly from his arms.

"Oh, I don't know!—I don't know! How can we be sure of anything?"

So saying, she flung herself down amid the cushions of the big velvet arm-chair. Geoff stood motionless for a moment, then seating himself on one of its wide arms, he leaned over, resting his hand upon the opposite side.

"Then know this henceforward, Evarne. You may with perfect confidence defy not only the world, headed by Winborough, but you may safely defy even yourself to destroy the love I have for you. You might wound me, and disappoint me, even forget me, yet while I live I shall love you, and after death also, if Heaven pleases. What more can I say than that?"

"Well, it's a very pretty sentiment, anyhow," was the lightly-spoken, almost mocking reply.

"Then truth is not always ugly," he answered quietly enough, but Evarne could see that he was not unmoved by her jeering tones. Impulsively she flung her arms around his neck, and drew his face down to hers.

"Geoffrey, I'm years and years—I'm centuries older than you in spirit. I have suffered so much in previous existences that my soul still retains its scars. Truth has always appeared to me so sad of countenance, that when I see it with a smiling face I dread deception. Yes, indeed. In my mind Truth is invariably so grim, so menacing, so destructive, that when anything appears in beautiful guise and calls itself Truth, I instinctively mistrust it."

"Then I suppose I can do nothing but wait, and let time prove my words."

A sudden impulse—a longing—seized Evarne to confess everything—there on the spot, without any preparation or delay. To take him at his word, to shatter his ideal, and see if the love he thought so invincible could really endure. What a triumphant answer to Morris—to meet him with Geoff by her side—Geoff knowing all, and unchanged by knowledge!

She sought for words with which to commence, but in the moment's hesitation she chanced to look full into his clear grey eyes. It was no use. A cold chill seized her, and a feeling almost of physical sickness. She was ashamed. It was impossible to find language for this task that her tongue could be brought to utter. She felt her cheeks flush red, and partly covered her face with her hand.

So much for this half-hearted attempt at confession. And as the impulse passed, a great thankfulness arose that she had not yielded to its wiles. That Geoff loved her now was as certain as that he lived, and at that very moment she could feel his warm breath upon her brow. But he spoke with untried confidence. Had he not once declared, practically in so many words, that he would rather see her dead than have aught destroy his love for her? He had, indeed, made an attempt to contradict himself a moment later; but she held those words to be the genuine offspring of truth—representative of his most usual frame of mind. No, her task was not to anticipate, but to strive to ward off the evil hour of disillusionment.

"My true lover," she murmured, "I know you are faithful and loyal and constant, and I believe you would be long-suffering. I trust you, depend upon you now, and rely upon you for the future without a single doubt or a moment's hesitation."

"And, dearest, am I to feel the same about you? Will you be always faithful and constant to me?"

"Oh, Geoff, always, always."

"Then all is well. I half feared that if Winborough got a chance to talk to you alone, and perhaps bullied and argued and persuaded and appealed to your affection for me, and all that sort of thing, you might perchance be led to imagine that you were really ensuring my ultimate happiness by going away and leaving no trace whereby I could discover you again. One hears of such things, you know."

"If I thought it would be really best for you, be sure I would——"

"Evarne, my dear—my dearest—remember——"

"Yes, Geoff, I do remember, whatever it might be you were going to remind me of, for I forget nothing. I do believe I can make you happy. You hear that? I firmly believe I can make your life happier than it could be without me. That belief is the foundation of all my actions. Will you always remember that? Please take it into your very heart of hearts, and let it fix itself there indelibly."

For some time they sat silent. With Geoff so very near to her, Evarne became conscious of a gentle calm, a certain sense of peace, a despondency that was mournful, but less desperate. It was with an effort that she finally roused herself sufficiently to take his watch out from his pocket and look at the time.

"Seven—seven o'clock and past!" she sighed, replacing it. "Ah me! You mustn't think, dear, that I'm dreadfully rude and inhospitable, but I'm afraid I must ask you not to stay any longer."

"Oh—h!"

"It's no use saying 'oh' in that dolorous manner," she declared, smiling. "You see—it's this way—old Philia has to leave here for the 'Poly' about seven. She will be going in a few minutes."

"But we don't mind, do we? We don't want the old lady."

Evarne cast down her eyes. The only excuse that had crossed her mind for getting Geoff out of the house struck her as being decidedly petty and unworthy.

"It is stupid, I know well; but people do talk so."

"Why, silly little Evarne, you are surely not bothering about Mrs. Grundy and the neighbours, are you?"

With a somewhat feeble and shamefaced smile she rose up from out the depths of the chair, and replied only by fetching his hat and offering it to him with a little curtsey.

"It's only till to-morrow. I shall come to the studio just as usual."

The young man took the proffered hat with undisguised reluctance.

"Of course, I cannot stay if my hostess turns me out thus firmly," he grumbled, "but I'm sure it is not necessary. I believe you're tired of me."

She shook her head confidently.

"I'm very sure you don't think that really."

His momentary ill-humour died away.

"Of course I don't, dear heart. I dare say you are in the right. Everything you do is perfect, only—I warn you—you will have to marry me sooner than ever for this. Can't you settle on a definite date by to-morrow? Do try."

She disregarded his question.

"I'm glad you're not vexed. You did frown at me, you did, and it made you look—oh, terribly ugly—just like a mediÆval gargoyle."

"You and Mrs. Harbert have certainly entered into a conspiracy with a view to reducing me to a proper condition of self-depreciation," declared Geoff, smiling at the lofty expression of disdain with which his "Sweet Lady" was still surveying him. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other.

"Come out with me, Evarne. Let us go and have something to eat, and then on to a theatre or somewhere, eh?"

"I've still got the tiniest little headache; I would rather not," she declared. "Good-bye, dearest." Then, correcting herself somewhat wildly: "No, no. I didn't mean good-bye—only good-night! Don't speak ill-omened words, Geoff. Only say good-night."

At length he was gone. Evarne pressed her hand to her forehead. This unexpected visit had both weakened and strengthened her.

After a few minutes she went upstairs to change her dress. Hearing the approaching steps, Philia, who was in her own room tying on her bonnet, called out, and as the girl entered she inquired—

"Are yer any 'appier now, my pet? Is it all right?"

"You really are fond of me, aren't you, Philia?" queried Evarne meditatively, without replying to the question she had been asked. Then, without waiting for any response to her own demand, she went on: "Would you mind doing a little errand for me? The classes at the 'Poly' end at ten, don't they? Will you go afterwards to Edith Gordon's and ask her for the blouse pattern she promised to lend me? It isn't very far out of your way, and you can stop and have a chat if she is in, can't you?"

"Right yer are," assented Philia cordially, and five minutes later the door had closed behind her.

At length the coast was quite clear for Morris's visit.

Evarne carefully studied her three tea-gowns. It was an important point. The green one was a great favourite with everybody, but it was undeniably getting old. The crimson cashmere with the black lace suited her splendidly, but both colour and material looked rather heavy for such hot weather. The pale yellow was the most suitable, and she would wear a harmonising cluster of sweet-peas.

Although every nerve in her body seemed to be now on edge, she did not neglect the least detail of her toilette, and at its completion could not but realise that she was indeed fair to behold. She had quite got back her colour, and that peculiar sparkling brilliance that was her characteristic beauty. Her luxurious dark hair, faintly scented and piled high upon her head, was held in place by ornamental combs. Long enamel earrings, gleaming blue and green, served to emphasise the soft carnation bloom of the cheeks they hung against, while a brooch of the same iridescent tones held together the lace at the point of the V-shaped opening of her gown. Then she put her diamond engagement ring upon her finger, and, after a final critical gaze into the mirror, descended the stairs. There she drew the blinds and lit the lamp. It was five minutes past eight. She sat down and waited.