And yet, when Mildred, too, looked at the portrait, and said, "What a fine lady! One of your flames, Mr. Devigne?" I had a sickening sense of impotent irritation, which became absolute torture when Mildred--how could I ever have admired that chocolate-box barmaid style of prettiness?--threw herself into the high-backed chair, covering the needlework with her ridiculous flounces, and added, "Silence gives consent! Who is it, Mr. Devigne? Tell us all about her: I am sure she has a story." Poor little Mildred, sitting there smiling, serene in her confidence that her every word charmed me--sitting there with her rather pinched waist, her rather tight boots, her rather vulgar voice--sitting in the chair where my dear lady had sat when she told me her story! I could not bear it. "Don't sit there," I said; "it's not comfortable!" But the girl would not be warned. With a laugh that set every nerve in my body vibrating with annoyance, she said, "Oh, dear! mustn't I even sit in the same chair as your black-velvet woman?" I looked at the chair in the picture. It _was_ the same; and in her chair Mildred was sitting. Then a horrible sense of the reality of Mildred came upon me. Was all this a reality after all? But for fortunate chance might Mildred have occupied, not only her chair, but her place in my life? I rose. "I hope you won't think me very rude," I said; "but I am obliged to go out." I forget what appointment I alleged. The lie came readily enough. I faced Mildred's pouts with the hope that she and her mother would not wait dinner for me. I fled. In another minute I was safe, alone, under the chill, cloudy autumn sky--free to think, think, think of my dear lady. I walked for hours along streets and squares; I lived over again and again every look, word, and hand-touch--every kiss; I was completely, unspeakably happy. Mildred was utterly forgotten: my lady of the ebony frame filled my heart and soul and spirit. As I heard eleven boom through the fog, I turned, and went home. When I got to my street, I found a crowd surging through it, a strong red light filling the air. A house was on fire. Mine. I elbowed my way through the crowd. The picture of my lady--that, at least, I could save! As I sprang up the steps, I saw, as in a dream--yes, all this was _really_ dream-like--I saw Mildred leaning out of the first-floor window, wringing her hands. "Come back, sir," cried a fireman; "we'll get the young lady out right enough." But _my_ lady? I went on up the stairs, cracking, smoking, and as hot as hell, to the room where her picture was. Strange to say, I only felt that the picture was a thing we should like to look on through the long glad wedded life that was to be ours. I never thought of it as being one with her. As I reached the first floor I felt arms round my neck. The smoke was too thick for me to distinguish features.