"Yes, all the day. I could not tempt him out for even five minutes. But then, he has had a holiday, as he says, although it was only a fortnight. That was not very long for--for a honeymoon." As she said the last sentence she blushed a little, and shot a swift, half-tender, half-reproachful glance at her husband. But he did not meet it; he only looked into the fire, while his brows slightly contracted. "I think Art owns more than half his soul," the girl said, with the flash of a smile. "He only gives to me the fortnights and to Art the years." There was a vague jealousy in her voice; but then the footman brought in tea, and she poured it out, talking gaily. From her conversation, Fane gathered that she had no idea of her husband's condition. With a curious and fascinating naturalness she spoke of her marriage, of her intentions for the long future. "If Reginald is really seedy, Dr Fane," she said, "get him well quickly, that he may complete his commissions. Because, you know, he has promised, when they are finished, to take me to Italy, and to Greece, to the country of Phidias, whose mantle has fallen upon my husband." "Do not force Dr Fane into untruth," said Brune, with an attempt at a smile. "And is that statue a commission?" Fane asked, indicating the marble figure, that seemed to watch them and to listen. "No; that is an imaginative work on which I have long been engaged. I call it, 'A Silent Guardian.'" "It is very beautiful," the doctor said. "What is your idea exactly? What is the figure guarding?" Brune and his wife glanced at one another--he gravely, she with a confident smile. Then he said, "I leave that to the imagination." Dr Fane looked again at the statue, and said slowly, "You have wrought it so finely that in this light my nerves tell me it is alive." Mrs Brune looked triumphant. "All the world would feel so if they could see it," she said; "but it is not to be exhibited. That is our fancy--his and mine. And now I will leave you together for a few minutes. Heal him of his ills, Dr Fane, won't you?" She vanished through the door at the end of the studio. The two men stood together by the hearth. "She does not know?" Fane asked. The other leaned his head upon his hand, which was pressed against the oak mantelpiece. "I am too cowardly to tell her," he said in a choked voice. "You must." "And when?" "To-day." There was a silence. Then, in his gravest professional manner, Fane gave some directions, and wrote others down, while the sculptor looked into the dancing fire. When Fane had finished:-- "Shall I tell her now?" he asked gently. Brune nodded without speaking. His face looked drawn and contorted as he moved towards the door. His emotion almost strangled him, and the effort to remain calm put a strain upon him that was terrible.