Philip's state of feverish agitation had not escaped Dora's notice. She had never seen him thus preoccupied and restless, until to-day. It was very evident that he was hiding something from her, and that it must be something most important. What could it possibly be? Philip, hitherto always so open and confiding, had failed for the first time to unbosom himself to her. She was no longer the confidante of his worries and the dispeller of his clouds of depression. There must be something very extraordinary going on, something quite exceptional and hitherto unknown, since she had been kept in the dark concerning it. Uncertainty is the cruellest trial for the heart of a woman to endure, when that woman is resolute and brave, and feels ready to face any danger courageously. Dora knew herself to be strong and valiant enough to brave any ordinary danger, but what was the use of that while there was nothing tangible to deal with and defy? This incertitude was devouring her. "I am stifling in this wretched studio," Philip had said to her, before going out with Lorimer. Never had she heard him speak thus of the dear retreat where they had passed so many exquisite hours together.

A kind of presentiment came over Dora, that their artistic existence was about to be broken up. Their past life had been an unbroken chain of happy days; what did the future hold in store? For the first time, Dora could see only a mist of uncertainty in front of her. Up to to-day, the road had seemed clear and sunny to her happy vision, and easy to tread, but now doubt clouded her sky; she could not see ahead. The road was perhaps going to branch. Would they take right or left?

"This wretched studio," had dealt her a blow, straight at the breast. A man may be irritable, sulky, wanting in common politeness even; he may forget himself so far as to lose his temper and use violent language, if you will; but there are hallowed things that he respects in all times and seasons, in temper and out of temper, and to Dora the studio was one of these things—a temple dedicated to all that she most cherished.

"This wretched studio," signified for her much more than Philip had put into the words, for, in her brain, things began to take magnified proportions. In cursing the studio, Philip had cursed his art, and for this he had chosen a day like the present, the anniversary of their wedding, and just when he was to have finished the portrait, whose growth she had watched as a child watches, with bated breath, the growth of a house of cards, which one false touch will destroy.

For the first time in her life Dora was miserable. Her pride revolted at the thought that something mysterious was passing under their roof, and that her husband had not thought fit to take her into his confidence. It did not occur to her that a man often avoids taking his wife into his confidence rather than expose her to the risk of a disappointment, by talking to her of hopes which may not be realised. Besides, there are important secrets which a man has to know how to keep to himself. A secret disclosed proves to be an indiscretion in the confiding one as often as a show of faith in the confidante. But Dora felt so sure of herself, so strong in her power of devotion, that it would never have entered her head that Philip could not repose entire confidence in her.

When little Eva returned from a walk, about half-past four, accompanied by Hobbs, she found her mother in tears, half lying on the sofa, her face hidden in her hands.

Eva had never seen her mother weep before. The effect upon the child was terrible.

"Mama, what is the matter?" cried Eva. And she burst into violent tears.

Quickly Dora pressed her handkerchief over her eyes to dry them, and smiled at the child.

"It is nothing at all, darling; nothing, nothing." And she took her up and pressed the poor little heaving breast to her own, but the more she sought to console her, the more the child sobbed and cried. It was impossible to calm her grief, it was heartrending.

"Mama, mama, are we not going to be happy any more?"

Dora rocked her beloved Eva in her arms and said, with a gay laugh—

"What a little goose it is! Was there ever such a goosikins?"

Eva had hidden her face on her mother's shoulder, and dared not look up for fear of seeing the awful mysterious something that had caused the state of distress in which she had discovered her mother. Her sobs finally died down into hiccoughs, and Dora began to sing to her some songs that the child loved. Eva gazed at her mother, whose face had regained its look of serenity, and then, growing bolder, glanced around into every corner of the room. Smiling once more, after her cautious survey of her surroundings, she ensconced herself more comfortably upon Dora's knees and said—

"Weren't we stupid, mama? There is nothing here, is there? But where can daddy be? How lazy he is to-day!"

"Yes, isn't he? Naughty father, he ought to be at work."

"When I marry," said Eva, "I shall never have a painter."

"Why?" asked Dora, whom the child's chatter always amused.

"Oh, because—I don't know—a painter is too busy always—he doesn't play with little girls. When I have a little girl, I shall play with her all day long."

Dora felt the reproach stab straight to her heart. She was on the verge of tears once more, and felt a choking lump in her throat, but she mastered the emotion.

"Then what kind of man shall you marry?" said she, with an effort at her gayest tones.

"None at all—I shall stay and live with you always; or else I shall be a nurse, like Aunt Gabrielle."

"To nurse sick people and take care of the poor who are suffering?"

"Yes," replied Eva, "and to wear a dress just like auntie's."

"Oh, that is your reason, eh? a very good one!"

Gabrielle looked her best perhaps in the nurse's costume which had so taken Eva's fancy. Of the purely English type, with rosy complexion, delicate features, sweet soft eyes and fair hair, and with that mixture of modesty and assurance in her bearing which is so characteristic of the best of her countrywomen, she lent a fresh charm to the always pleasing semi-nun-like attire worn by hospital nurses. Something of that joy of living, which angels seem to stamp upon the faces of women who devote themselves to the well-being and happiness of others and to the assuaging of pain and suffering, had fascinated her little niece. Eva felt the charm, without being able to analyse it. She knew that Aunt Gabrielle would look beautiful in any dress, but thought that she was lovely in her nurse's garb.

The child had forgotten all her tears and went on with her prattle. It was nearly five o'clock when Philip came in, evidently in a poor humour, and muttering words that did not reach Dora's ear.

"Eva," said he, "you must go and get dressed now, there's a good child; we are going to dine a little earlier to-night, so that you may sit up to dinner with us. You know, it is a holiday to-day; it is the anniversary of the day daddy and mama were married on—I'll warrant there will be a special pudding for the occasion."

Eva ran off, singing in her delight, and went to find Hobbs. A moment later, her little silvery voice was heard at the top of the stairs, announcing to her nurse that she was to stay up to dinner with mama and daddy.

Presently the sound of the delightful babble ceased with the closing of the nursery door.

"You have scarcely had time to go down to the theatre," said Dora.

"No," replied Philip. "Lorimer began upon his endless theories again—what a bore he is when he talks like that! I could not stand him to-day; and, besides, I thought I had better get back and go on with the portrait until dinner."

He looked at the clock and took off his coat.

"It is going to be done to-day, after all then, that wretched portrait," said Dora, laughing and laying a stress on the word "wretched."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I see you are tired of it."

"To tell you the truth, I am dying to get it done."

He put on his velvet jacket, sat at the easel, took his palette and his brushes.

"Now then, to work!" said he.

"It is only five o'clock," said Dora; "you have a good deal of time yet before dinner."

He mixed his colours and was soon apparently engrossed in the pansies. He worked three-quarters of an hour without stopping. Dora had taken a book, and sat reading a few paces from the easel.

On the stroke of six, a violent ring at the bell, impatiently repeated, was heard at the door. Philip, who had heard a cab draw up outside the studio, trembled with excitement at the sound of the bell and let fall his palette and brush.

"It is he," he cried; "it is de Lussac! no one else would ring violently like that. He has good news, he must have—yes," he shouted, wild with joy, "it is his step, I hear him."

And he ran to meet the young attachÉ, whose voice he recognised.

Dora had thrown her book down on the sofa, and had risen from her chair.

De Lussac came briskly into the studio, with a telegram in his hand, which he waved about his head.

"Good news! Victory!" he cried. "Hip, hip, hurrah! as you say in England—adopted unanimously, my dear fellow. The Government offers you a million francs for the shell—here is the wire!"

Philip was half beside himself with joy. He seized the telegram from the hands of the attachÉ, read it, re-read it, and handed it back.

Dora, mute, immobile, was standing a couple of paces off.

"Oh, Dora dear, my dream is realised at last! For months I have worked in secret. I was so afraid of failing that I have never dared mention a word to you about this thing, but I have succeeded. I am rewarded for all my labour and agony of anxiety about my invention. This shell is bought by the French Government. I am rich—rich!" he cried. "Do you hear, darling? Oh, my Dora!"

And he folded her lovingly in his arms.

Eva had come, running in at the sound of her father's shouts, which had reached her ears.

"Daddy, daddy, what is the matter?"

Philip seized the child and lifted her in the air.

"Why, the matter is that your papa is a rich man. Are you glad?"

"Oh yes, of course I am very glad," said the child, seeing her father's beaming face. "Then we are going to be happier than ever?"

"Why, to be sure we are," said Philip, executing another swing of the child into the air.

Dora seemed to be stunned. She did not realise the situation, which, for that matter, could only be fully explained by Philip later on. All that the poor woman clearly understood for the moment was, that in the present state of excitement in which Philip appeared to be, he would certainly not finish the portrait that day.

Philip begged de Lussac to stay and dine, and also sent a telegram to Lorimer, to tell him the great news and ask him to try and join them. He needed friends to help him bear his joy. To bear hers, Dora would have chosen to be alone with Philip.

In moments of greatest joy a woman prefers solitude with the man she loves, and Dora was vexed that Philip should invite de Lussac and Lorimer to pass this evening with him.

The two sexes will probably never understand each other.

It may possibly be that each one judges the other by its own.