Obviously Lady Lakeden's portrait was not on any of the easels; nor could she distinguish any fresh unit amid these many canvasses, all individually familiar to her--like a card-sharper, she could identify any one of them immediately from its apparently featureless back. Her first feeling was one of astonished disappointment, and she rose now, ready to institute a closer search. The possibility of being baulked of her purpose stirred a sudden rage in her. She no longer knew herself. "I am mad--mad," was the thought that echoed through her brain. "But if I am," she reasoned grimly, "my sufferings all these weeks have made me so. I would sooner die than endure this all over again." Then she set about examining all the canvasses, turning them one after the other to the light, in the vain hope that her too accurate knowledge of them might prove in some instance mistaken. But in vain! Was it possible that the portrait was already on its way to Paris? But wait, was there anything behind the screen so carelessly sprawling in the corner there under the great window? In a moment she had dashed across, and had half-dragged, half-flung it out of its place. Ah! she could almost have screamed with fury at Wyndham's cautious foresight--this unmistakable provision against an accidental visit from her. It was then true; definitely, absolutely true! The man whom she loved to madness, who had professed to love her for herself alone, belonged heart and soul to another woman! A mist palpitated in the air before her, and the gold foliage and convolutions of the ornate Venetian frame shone through it distorted and terrible. But the canvas itself was a vague blur to her. She staggered over to the nearer lamp and bore it over to the corner, kneeling so as to bring the light full on the picture and her own face opposite Lady Lakeden's. And as now she saw this rare princess, bathed in a mystic light, this figure, full of a sweet dignity and a stately grace; as her eyes rested on the girlish face whose character yet shone out in a splendid illumination, though the rounded, youthful features were free from any stamp that might have touched the bloom of their spring-tide beauty, a cruel knife worked in Alice's heart, a knife that seared as well as stabbed. For a long minute she gazed at the portrait, letting it burn itself on her vision in its every shade and detail--the fresh sheen on the hair, the proud yet sweet tilt of the face, the wonderfully fresh and deep violet-grey eyes, the veritable rose-bud mouth that was yet so firm and true! This, then, was her rival! How could she, the plainest of the plain, hope to struggle against the irresistible might of this loveliness! A sense of absolute defeat, of complete hopelessness invaded her whole being; it was the same submissive acquiescence with which she had contemplated herself in the glass on that momentous evening when Wyndham had appeared in her father's house for the first time. But then