She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting things straight. Orders had come in for a couple of small street-urchin pictures. She had to make arrangements for setting to work upon them at once. Her mind was intent upon the matter when she heard Kent pass down the stairs on his way to the Museum. Ordinarily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed for time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he passed, nod good-morning, and perhaps receive some small commission to execute at the colour man's in Oxford Street. “Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy,” thought Clytie, “and is taking this opportunity of breaking it off.” The thought was a whip to her pride. It sent the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks. She was alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. She felt humiliated, insulted, and encouraged herself in the feeling, baring her shoulders to the lash. It scarcely occurred to her then to inquire into the justice of the suggestion--the mere fact of the suggestion presenting itself was sufficient to make her burn with indignation. After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to look at the shops and the people. Town was filling again, the afternoon sun shone brightly. Clytie's spirits rose. She went with light, defiant tread down the Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance upon admiring loungers, bought herself gloves and odds and ends of millinery, crossed over to Bond Street, looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view in the gallery, and then, after an interview with Burrowes, the dealer, in Oxford Street, she turned into Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the contemplation of the miscellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its broad pavement. Perhaps the wished-for face would meet her there, she thought, smiling to herself; in which case she determined that she would stop, pass it and repass it, fixing its features in her memory. She amused herself thus for some time, scanning the faces of the passers-by, inventing rapid histories to account, here for the after-light of laughter in a young girl's eyes, and there for the lines of pain round the corners of an older woman's lips. She paused before a shop-window to observe a ragged little arab who was flattening a nose, already much snubbed by previous applications, against the glass. To gratify a whimsical artistic fancy she entered the shop on a trivial pretext so as to obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect of the urchin's face. Then, after making a mental note of it for future use, she went on her way. It was exhilarating, this bright London, with its manifold variegation, after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This perpetual stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped helpless in the quiet country town. And with the thrill of artistic quickening came the buoyant, vigorous pulsation of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks and eyes animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morning in