"No, I never heard what became of Conrad. No doubt he went back to his favourite chip, chipping. He has got a splendid thing he is full of now, and it prevents his sleeping; something or other very horrible from Dante, and the leading figure is modelled after you. I have seen the drawings, and he has got you exactly." "How gratifying to be sure! I will ask you no more questions. Pray let me know when I am for sale; though I should call it a work of illegitimate art." My eyes were on her face, but she showed no consciousness whatever, which she must have done had she known the fact referred to, for she was quick of perception, and open as the day. I was angry with myself for the low and bootless sneer, which was pretty certain to be conveyed to her brother. "Now I will delay no longer. Let me speak to Dr. Franks. I shall go this afternoon." Poor Isola turned pale; she had looked upon the occurrence as only a lover’s quarrel, sure to be set right in a day or two. She could not harbour any great resentment long, and forgot that I could. "Don’t talk so, dear; and you so very weak! it would be sure to kill you. And what will Conny think? You must not go, at any rate, till you have been to see him." "I go to him! I hope to see him never more until I charge him in another world with this bitter wrong. No, no more if you please; I will not hear his name again. How can he be your brother? Darling Idols, I never shall forget you. Take this, my pet, and think of me sometimes, for you will never see me more." I gave her an emerald ring, set with lovely pearls, small types of herself. It was not the one I had reclaimed from her brother, that was a plain keeper. "Oh Clara, Clara, don’t say that, whatever you do, because I know you will keep to it, you are so shamefully obstinate. And I never loved any one in the world like you; no, not even Conny." "And not even your father or mother?" "No, not half so much. I like Pappy very well when he is good and kind, but that is not very often now"--the poor little thing’s eyes filled again with tears,--"and as for my mother, I never even saw her; she died when I was born." "And I love you too, my sweet, best of all the world--now. Nevertheless, we must part." "And never see each other? I don’t call that loving. Tell me why: do tell me why. There seems some horrid mystery about every one I love." And she was overcome with grief. She had not been, like me, apprenticed young to trouble. "Darling, I will write to you sometimes. You can come here for the letters. I will have no secrets any more from you; but you must never attempt to write to me--only send your name on a bit of paper when my letters go." "But why on earth mayn’t I write to you, Clara dear?"