the indubitable necessity of unlocking her inmost self in order to be herself. Illogically enough, but with a very human inconsistency, she longed for the conditions that would give her the sense of freedom of expansion that she demanded, without contemplating that on which her whole freedom was based. Yet she knew well that against which she revolted, from which she longed to escape. In a word, it was the fact, and the implication founded on that fact, that Arthur Craddock was coming to Egypt with them. Coupled with it was the idea, so cursorily introduced by her father, that she should give Craddock the sketch that Charles had made of her. Literally, no expenditure of ingenuity could have framed a more unfeasible request. There was nothing in the world she could less easily have parted with. And the suggestion was thrown over the shoulder, so to speak, like an idle question-a meaningless complimentary speech. But now she wondered whether it was only that. Taken in conjunction with Craddock, and his bloodless wooing of her, she felt it was possible that this was in the nature of a test-question. Was it? Was it?

Once more for a moment she desired the night, and the storm, and the waters of the swollen river; then, instantly, she knew that all this was but a symbol of the knowledge that burned behind the closed and barred doors of her mind. She seemed to have no volition in the matter; she but looked at the doors and they swung open, and the light that burned within was made manifest. She ceased from her restless pacing of her room, and, with a little sigh of recovered rest, sat down at her dressing-table and unlocked one of the drawers. It was empty but for a couple of letters addressed to her. They were quite short, and nearly quite formal. But they filled the drawer, and they filled everything else beside.

She read them:

'DEAR MISS WROUGHTON,-I hope the copy of the picture satisfies your father. I didn't see him before I left, and I should so much like to know that he is pleased with it (if he is). I can't tell how sorry I was to finish it, for it was such a pleasure to do it. I should so like to see it in its place, if that is possible—I often think of you and poor Buz. . . .'

There was nothing here that the merest formalist might not have written only a mere formalist would not have

written it

She took out the second letter.

DEAR MISS WROUGHTON,-I am so glad your father likes the copy. About that silly little sketch-if you are going to frame it, I think you had better just have a plain gilt frame and no mount. A mount will only make it look more dabby. I am busy with a portrait of my mother, and it's tremendous fun, chiefly, I suppose, because she has a perfectly darling face, and is utterly like her face. But of course, any day will suit me to come down and look at the copy, and I do want to see if it is fairly satisfactory. I will come on any day and at any hour that you suggest.

Sincerely yours,

CHARLES LATHOM.'

'P.S. I have got into a new studio, which is lovely. Won't you be up in town sometime before you go to Egypt, and won't you come to lunch or tea? Lady Crowborough said she would, and I will ask her the same day, or, if my mother came, wouldn't it do? But I should like you to see my things. It has been quite dark for days, and I suppose will be all the winter. I wish I could put my studio down in Egypt.'

There was nothing here that anybody might not see. But Joyce would not have shewn those letters to anybody. She felt she would have shewn his heart, no less than her own, in shewing them. And for comment on the text, if any were needed, there was his sketch of her. That was how he saw her.

All restlessness had utterly subsided; she had only been restless as long as she had wanted to be herself, without admitting to herself all that was real in her, as long as she shut up the brightburning knowledge that shone in her innermost heart. Now she had thrown the closed doors wide, and sat very still, very brighteyed, with the two simple little notes on the table in front of her, desiring no more the air and the tumult of the night, but unconscious of it, hearing it no longer.

Below the drawer where she kept those letters was another, also locked. After a while she opened that also, and took out what it contained. Often she had laughed at herself for keeping it, often she had scolded herself for so doing; but neither her ridicule nor her blame had stung her sufficiently to make her throw it away or destroy it. In its present condition it would have been hard to catalogue or describe. But there was no doubt that this shapeless and mud-stained affair had once been a straw-hat. She had found it drowned and pulpy just below the landing-stage of the Mill House the day after Charles had made his sketch of her.

Meantime, Arthur Craddock, though glib and instructive in

matters of hotels and travel, had been very deeply busy over a new condition that he felt to concern him considerably. Rightly or wrongly, he believed that this boy who had painted that wonderful little water-colour of Joyce was in love with her. He could not wholly account for his conviction, but judging intuitively it seemed plain to him. And what seemed no less plain, and far more important, was the fact that Joyce peculiarly valued that sketch. No intuition was necessary here; the trouble and sudden colour in her face when she told her father that she could not possibly part with it spoke more intelligibly than her words even. Had he known or guessed a little more, had he conjectured that even at this moment Joyce was sitting in her room with those two little notes spread in front of her, while in a drawer, yet unopened, there lurked the dismal remains of Charles' strawhat, he might have suspected the futility of the abominable interference that he was even now concocting. For little meddling lies have seldom the vitality to enable them to prevail against needs that are big and emotions that are real. Soon or late, by logical or chance discovery, comes the vindication of the latter, and they assert themselves by virtue of their inherent strength; soon or late, for the air is full of thousands of stray sparks, comes the explosion that shatters such petty fabrications, the chance circumstance that blows it sky-high. But he only thought that he was dealing with the calf-love of a boy whom he had rescued, if not from a gutter, at any rate from a garret, and who was altogether insignificant save for his divine artistic gift, the fruits of which he was bound to sell at so reasonable a price to himself, and with, he supposed, the fancy of a girl who knows nothing of the world, for a handsome young face.

So in this dangerous state of little knowledge he planned and invented as he talked about steamers and hotels, till even his companion was convinced that the utmost possible would be done for his convenience and comfort. Then, for he was now ready, Craddock took up Charles' sketch again.

Certainly that young Lathom has a wonderful gift,' he said, 'and I congratulate myself on having obtained you so fine a copy of your Reynolds. He stayed with you, did he not, when the weather broke?'

Philip glanced at the clock; it was already half-past ten, but he did not mind having a word or two about Charles. Indeed, it is possible he would have initiated the subject.

'Yes, he was with us a week,' he said, though the invitation

was not of my asking. He seemed a well-behaved young fellow.'

Craddock caressed the side of his face before relying.

'I wish I could share your good opinion of him,' he said. 'Of course, when I recommended him to you for the work, which he has certainly done very well, it never occurred to me that you would have him in the house like that. But I have no wish to enter into details, and since his connection with you is over there is no reason why I should.'

Philip got up.

'Indeed, I am glad to know that,' he said, 'because there certainly was considerable friendliness between him and Joyce, which I did not altogether like, though it was hard to prevent. Now I have a reason, which my duty forbids me to disobey, for refusing to allow any resumption of their acquaintance-I am not sorry for that.' Craddock got up also.

'Then let us leave the subject,' he said. 'Now I know your bedtime is half-past ten, so pray do not be ceremonious with me, but allow me to sit here for a quarter of an hour more, while you go to bed. Listen to the storm! But by this day month, I hope we shall both be in that valley of Avilion, basking in the warm sunshine of Nile-side. For the present it is good-night and goodbye, for I have to go early to-morrow. I will write to Miss Joyce fully about our travelling arrangements.'

Craddock lit another cigarette after his host was gone, and, knowing he would not see him again in the morning, thought over what he had just said, to assure himself that he had managed to convey that indefinite sufficiency which he had in view. He thought that he had probably succeeded very well, for he had given his host an excuse, which he was clearly glad to make use of, for stopping any future intercourse between this young fellow and his own circle. And he had effected this without being positively libellous, for he had said no more than that he wished he could share Philip's good opinion of him. He felt that it was certainly time to prevent the ripening of this acquaintanceship, that Joyce had better have it conveyed to her, as assuredly she would, that she would not see the author of that sketch any more.

The sketch stood by him on the table, and once again he took it up, and found it even more admirable than he had thought. And, even as he looked, the injury and wrong that he had done to its

artist made him feel, for the first time, a curious dislike of him; he disliked him just because he had injured him. But this dislike did not extend to his pictures, and the thought that the portrait of his mother and two more canvases besides would pass into his possession, gave him the keenest sort of satisfaction, since he augured for their author a fame and a future of no ordinary kind. What would that hand be capable of when its power was fully matured? Certainly it should not be for want of recognition that he should any longer remain unknown. He himself, though anonymously, had written the notice to the Whitehall' regarding Charles' picture of his brother at Thorley Weir, and next week under his own signature would appear a column's notice of the same Exhibition, practically devoted to that one canvas. At any rate that would have the effect of making the world in general turn their eyes to that which had evoked from him so apparently extravagant a eulogy, and he completely trusted the picture itself to convince them that no extravagance had been committed. People would be set talking, and in next year's Academy would be hung the portrait of Charles' mother. That would be sufficient.

He got up and lit his bedroom candle. It seemed to him that he had arranged Charles' future very satisfactorily. He would do the most that could be done for the young man with regard to his artistic career, and as regards his private affairs he had made arrangements for them already in half a dozen sentences that had not been spoken amiss. But his new-born dislike of him made him reconsider his resolve to pay him the hundred pounds which Mr. Ward had been so pleased to give for the copy of Reynolds. After all, Charles had been promised only half that sum, and had been more than content to close with that bargain. The fact that Mr. Ward had paid more for it was a thing that lay outside questions that concerned him. Craddock had promised him fifty pounds for the copy, and Craddock would pay it . . . But he did not definitely settle either on one sum or the other.

It was three days after this that Craddock's word of warning to Joyce's father bore fruit. She had come into his study that morning before lunch, and found him singularly well pleased at the proposed itinerary which had just arrived from Craddock. Sleepingberths had already been secured, they would not have to change trains at Paris, and the sleeping-car went, on arrival at Marseilles, straight through to the quay where their ship was berthed. . . .