Wyndham told Alice of the happy chance that had presented itself of a dash at Lady Lakeden's portrait, and held out the possibility of the Salon's finding a corner for it.

"How delightful!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't it be brilliant to be in the Salon as well as in the Academy?"

"It's just a dainty little study, and of course I'm doing it for the pure pleasure of the thing. But the committee may not consider it important enough for serious consideration, though that depends on what I make of it. In any case I'll present it to her afterwards in acknowledgment of all their past kindness."

"It's the nicest acknowledgment you could possibly make them. I am so glad you thought of it." Her approval of the idea was generous and eager. And she was excitedly interested in the Grosvenor Place household. She plied him with questions. Was it an old peerage? Was there a great country house? Had Lady Lakeden a brother? Then who was the heir to the title?—would it pass to a collateral line? He enlightened her on all these matters, sketching out for her the grooves which the lives of such people generally occupied. And he threw out the reflection that it was lucky indeed the renewal of his relations with Grosvenor Place had not been delayed any further. He had gone back there in the very nick of time, for the house was going to be shut up; the earl leaving in a week or so to take a long sea voyage, whilst Lady Lakeden meditated departure as soon as the portrait was done. Alice remarked that they seemed to be fond of roaming about a great deal, and Wyndham pointed out that Lady Lakeden and her father were exceptionally placed, were to a great extent emancipated from the "swim." The earl had practically retired from society, and his daughter, as a young widow, naturally sought distraction in her own way, though of course she could float brilliantly back into the world whenever the mood took her.

Since the portrait was going to the Salon, he was naturally compelled to tell Alice about it. But the intense way in which she seemed to be fixing her eyes on the Grosvenor Place household disconcerted him beyond measure. This fresh interest of his had become her interest too; she had fastened on it out of all proportion to its visible importance. At uneasy moments he asked himself if she suspected that something lay behind this apparently simple and innocent acquaintanceship; for her insistent and almost morbid return to the subject on the following days indicated its amazing hold of her.

Yet, obviously, it was impossible that she should be cherishing any ideas of that kind. He flattered himself that his demeanour towards her, in this trying and difficult period, was perfect; that he was as tender in all their relations as if his heart were truly hers. Nay, he was devoting even more of his leisure to her than ever before. And for the very reason that the evening journeys to Hampstead had become distasteful, he was the more careful that there should be no falling off in his attendance there. In no wise could he have betrayed himself to his affianced wife. No, she could not possibly have any suspicion of the truth: he was satisfied that her preoccupation with the Grosvenor Place household all arose out of womanly sympathy on her part; that Lady Lakeden's tragic widowhood had touched the depths of her imagination.

Poor Alice! How simple and trusting her surface reading of the facts! How ignorant of the brutal complications, as grotesque as incredible, in which Nature often wrapped up human unhappiness!

What a terrible tangle it was for them all! Were he free now, how gladly would his princess have placed her hand in his! In the old days the possible marriage of the brilliant girl had been hedged around with extraordinary limitations—to which he too had bowed as to something in the order of nature. But, as a widow, she would naturally be expected to please herself when matrimonially inclined. By common social understanding, even the noblest and richest of widows may permit herself a considerable latitude of choice, and no word of criticism can lie against her unless she has travelled rather far out of the conventional grooves. A marriage between him and Lady Betty now might raise a flicker of interest beyond what was usual—considering his notorious poverty—but it could call down nobody's censure.

But all this, alas! was but an idle speculation now. The time sped; the earl bade him goodbye; and he realised that the end was fast approaching. The few days that remained to him of Lady Betty's companionship became trebly precious, to be counted with despair! Though only an hour or two out of the twenty-four was spent in her society, his whole heart and mind, his whole life, were concentrated there. Each day he brought her a bunch of lilies of the valley, which she fixed in her bosom and insisted he must include in the picture. And during the enchanted time they were together, they talked freely and in perfect trust. It was more than a friendship—more than an exchange of confidences; it was more than the intimacy of a soul with itself—for that is not always honest even at its most courageous moments. In this free, splendid realm of communion with her, he stood up in all his manhood: rising to that simple truth which is yet of the heavens and the spaces; measuring himself against great standards; seeing and regretting his egotisms, vanities, self-deceptions; valuing himself humbly. The depths of Lady Betty's sympathy were indeed profound. She could enter into his life, appreciate motives barely realised by himself, and, with charming broad humanity, understand and forgive his actions even when he felt ashamed of them as unworthy and discreditable. No comedy of sentiment here—no playing of the saint on either side; but a noble simplicity, a serene good faith, a spontaneous self-revelation!

He recounted to her, as naturally as everything else, the whole history of his acquaintanceship with the Robinsons. He spared himself not a detail: how he had first dallied with temptation, his moment of panic, his specious reasoning, his ignoble surrender! He laid himself bare as with a scalpel. Yet of Alice he spoke always with reverence and loyalty, dwelling on her devotion, on the little she needed from him to give her happiness. And Lady Betty caught his appreciation of her. "I seem to know and understand her well," she said. "She is a delicate, untarnished soul. She seems more real to me than people who have lived near me all my life. And so her heart has gone out to me! I feel I could never bear to meet her—the moment would be too terrible! Ah, why did you not speak in the old days?"

"I repeat I had not the right. And then I did not dream I was worth one single thought of yours."

"I gave you all my thoughts. You were so serious. You sat with knitted brow, sternly in your work, and I hardly dared to come near you. You seemed remote from women; grimly devoted to your purpose—to triumph or to die! At poor me you scarcely deigned to look. And then you disappeared, and I knew you would not return."

"I disappeared. I left happiness behind me, and retired into my living tomb."

"My heart bleeds for you." There was a pause. Her eyes were full of pain. But presently she broke the silence, as if discovering some crumb of comfort. "This time at least you will not be going to privation."

"In my heart of hearts privation is preferable."

"Ah, no. Remember it is the call of duty. It is the sacrifice we must make for Alice's sake. She is a good woman. Her life must not be broken."

"I promise I shall try to make her happy—whatever the cost. But think how happy we should have been together, you and I, darling."

"We should have been happy together," she said in a low voice. "It would have been a perfect union. But I say again that life is a compromise. Our demands are great; we have to accept the little that is granted."

"Yet the door still stands open," he mused. "We may yet take our fate into our own hands."

"The door stands open, but we turn our backs upon it."

"We are too strong," he groaned. "I am tempted to pray for weakness."

She drew herself up, her face alight with a noble radiance. "Let us both be proud of our strength. We have set right above everything."

"But suppose we are mistaken—" he urged tensely.

"We cannot strike her down! No, no, we must not take away her great happiness—you have given it to her! I depute you, if you love me, to guard her welfare—on my behalf and on your own. Remember, too, she is happy with so little!"

"I shall be a loyal husband. But, in the realms that lie outside her penetration, you have promised that I may cherish the thought of you as an inspiration."

"To speak to you with my own voice—to help you to the strength that cannot falter!"

But the end was close upon them. He could not linger over the picture, even had he wished. As the last days slipped by his face saddened visibly. Lady Betty begged him to bear up. He was so changed in aspect that Alice could not fail to notice it.

"There is no danger," he returned. "She has already spoken of it, and I have put it down to fatigue. She has seen how desperately I have been working for months on end, and she is satisfied I need rest."

One day, he ventured to question Lady Betty about her plans, but she replied that they were vague. She only knew that she would travel for the present; she would not make up her mind as to details till the last moment.

"But even then I should not tell you," she added, with a wan smile. "Our parting must be decisive. I shall read of your career, and my mind shall be always with you in your work; but I shall not cross your path again. There is one last thing I suggest. When you have finished the picture, let us spend the whole of our last day together."

"I shall set it apart. We shall consecrate it with our farewell."

"I shall give you the souvenir I promised. I shall keep it till the end; and then it will be goodbye."

"Goodbye?" he breathed. "Oh, it is cruel!"

He was shaken again. Some wild rebellion was rising in him, and vainly Lady Betty tried to calm him with pleading—even with tears. But she revealed only the more her own anguish. At last she had command of herself again, and put a stern inflection into her voice.

"For Alice's sake you must conquer yourself. No, let it be for my sake. I put it as the test of your love for me. Otherwise I shall believe that your love is selfish."

"I promise I shall conquer myself, but I must have time."

"You make me terribly afraid—you may wound her by a chance word."

"That is impossible. Her mind is serene—no word of mine shall disturb it."

But Lady Betty's fears were by no means allayed. She wrote him long letters, imploring him to keep command of himself, else she would regret bitterly that they had ever met again. They had both fought this terrible battle: they were neither of them emerging unscathed, but their wounds and hurt were the price of honourable victory. She was sure of herself; but was he—the man!—to shrink back when the supreme moment came? The thought of loyal duty accomplished would bring equanimity hereafter.

"Ah, if all were only a dream!" he exclaimed sadly, as he lay thinking of nights. And then he would try to believe that he had not met Lady Betty again, had never even heard of her since her wedding-day. He had never made the acquaintance of the Robinsons, had never set foot in their great ugly house at the corner. Were not all these things the fancies of a disordered imagination, and was he not still here in Hampstead, in his narrow iron bed up on the gallery? To-morrow he would jump up and make his miserable breakfast as usual, would think of working without being able to raise a hand, and would potter away the hours. And at six in the evening he would see his prosperous neighbour from the City go past with noiseless, gentle step, bearing a plaited rush-bag with a skewer thrust through it. Yet what a relief to throw off the illusions of these latter days, and find himself again as of old, free of all the tangle; even though the problem of bread still faced him, and the vista of hopeless days stretched away endlessly!

Alas! the morning light, filling his panelled bedroom and revealing to his eyes the many luxuries of these prosperous days, testified only too convincingly to the reality of recent developments.

And yet, as he turned up the well-known Hampstead street of an evening on his way to the Robinsons, he would still struggle again to recover the illusion that the old days were yet. Approaching the house as it loomed in the near distance through the wintry mist, he would imagine himself supremely unconcerned with it. And then he would stop outside his own former door, and fumble in his pocket a moment as if to find the key. Like lessons learnt after the mind is set, all these later accretions to his existence were ready to drop away, to have a shadowy relation to him. It made him realise with astonishment how easily he might cut the Robinsons out of his life, and proceed as if he had never known them. His bond of obligation was more real to him than the people to whom he was bound!

He was shrewd enough to see that in his heart of hearts he was sullenly and perpetually angry that so much had come to him from so extraneous a source. Where his own strength and gifts had failed, these people from a world that was not his world, either in thought or mode, had come in and brought him prosperity. This galling sense of absolute dependence on the Robinsons seemed the deepest humiliation he had known. They had given him food when he was nigh starvation; they had given work when the prospect of work had vanished—had showered on him benefits and kindnesses innumerable. They had restored him to society and to the world of art and letters. He owed them the confidence of his bearing before the world, the manly swing of his step, the pride of his glance.

That this should be his destiny was horrible! He rebelled and cried out with all his might. Oh! to wield the sceptre of destiny himself!—to shape the evolution of a brilliant career and merit the crown of a great love by his own power and performance!

And yet at the back of his troubled mind there lay in terrible calm the stern determination to stand by his obligations. His promise to Lady Betty was in no danger. All this feverish agitation was but as the surf beating on a granite shore. He knew that he would bow his head in resignation; that, after the parting with Lady Betty, he would settle down as the most attentive of husbands; acquiescent of an atmosphere of physical well-being, yet paradoxically living from hand to mouth, so far as his deeper life was concerned; thankful for any morsel of good each day might bring him, and looking not beyond its horizon.

Alice should have her happiness, never guessing what turmoil and torture two souls had voluntarily undergone for her.