She was in town, and in a week's time was to be married to Sir Ralph. Two months after Mrs. Cathcart had taken her niece abroad, the baronet joined them, and renewed his proposals; this time with success. The girl stipulated that the marriage should not take place until the spring. The truth is she wanted some months' delay in order to get rid of the memories of Gerald Leigh, and by the time she returned to England flattered herself she had successfully completed the operation. She had in the last few days heard some talk about the statue, but had steadfastly kept her eyes from the art criticisms, fearing to see Gerald's name. Nevertheless, she wished to visit the Academy, and was surprised when James Herbert, now amiability itself, refused to take her there. "You mustn't go this year," he said; "that fellow's statute is creating quite a furore." "Well, what of that!" asked Eugenia, coldly. "He has had bad taste enough to represent you. The likeness is unmistakable. It is a maudlin thing--a girl deserting her old love, or some such nonsense. Still, you'd better not go." Eugenia said no more, but all day long she was thinking of her brother's words, and longing to see what Gerald had wrought. That evening she dined out. At the table were several persons who worshipped art, and Eugenia's cheek burned as she heard the praise bestowed on the new sculptor and the great future prophesied for him. Had she, after all, been wrong? Would it not have been better to have followed the mandates of her heart? Had she not been weak and mercenary? No matter; it was too late now to repent. Poor Gerald! She must see this wonderful image of herself. Early next morning she went alone to Burlington House. Unlike others, she knew the meaning of the statue, knew the mute reproach it conveyed, knew why the marble foot trod down those particular flowers. She had never told him the fate of his boyish gift; but Gerald had often and often recalled his first meeting with her. Eugenia's heart swelled as she remembered his brave words and confidence in himself--how sure he felt of success. He had, indeed, succeeded, but the first great work from his hands was a memento of his love for a faithless woman--herself. Two gentlemen were at her side. They were talking of the work and the sculptor. One of them she knew. He was a lord, famous for his love of art and encouragement of rising artists. "I tried to buy it," he said, "but found it was not for sale." "Commercially speaking," said his companion, "it is as well you cannot buy it." "Why? The man must go to the top of his profession." "I think not. Indeed, my belief is he will do little more. I have inquired about him. He does not live the life a genius must live in these days if he wants to succeed." "I am sorry to hear it," said Lord ----, moving away.