For a moment he thought of an old simile of his of her being like an Æolian harp, which struck harshly or softly, by the north wind or the gentle south, could only breathe harmony in return. Would that fine perfection of composure still remain with her, now that her generous artistic aspirations seemed to have been crushed in some way? He knew himself—for the divine light of her face in certain moments had taught him—that there is no joy upon earth to be compared with the joy of artistic creation. He could imagine, then, that the greatest possible misery is that which results from strong desire and impotent faculty. "It is ’Rosalind’ that is wrong, not she," he said. "Or she may be suffering from some indisposition—at any rate they may spare their half-concealed compassion. Let her get a part to suit her—and then!" He was not quite satisfied. How was it that none of the critics—and some of them were men of the true critical, sensitive temperament, quick to discern the subtle personal relations existing between an artist and his art—dwelt upon the point that the part was obviously unsuited to her? Indeed, did not every one who had seen her in divers parts know that there were few parts which were so obviously suited to her? "I know what it is!" said the Count. "There aren’t enough people returned to town to fill the theatre, and she has been disheartened." And he already had some recklessly extravagant idea of filling the house with "paper" at his own expense. "But there you read that the theatre was crammed," said Will. "True," said the Count, gravely. "I hope there’s nobody whom she has refused to see, or something like that, has been bribing all the papers out of spite?" "They do that only in French plays," said Will. "I should think it more likely that the girl has been put out of sorts by some private affliction. We shall see when we get home." Then he reflected with a bitter pang that now he was debarred from ever approaching that too dear friend of his and asking about her welfare. Whatever she might be suffering, through private sorrow or public neglect, he could no longer go forward and offer a comforting hand and a comforting word. When he thought that this privilege was now monopolised by the big, well-meaning, blundering Count, he was like to break his own resolve and vow to go straight to her the moment his feet touched English soil. They crossed the Channel during the day; when they arrived in London, towards the evening, Will drove straight to his chambers, and the Count went home. "You won’t go down to St. Mary-Kirby," the latter had said, "to see that charming little Dove? what a devilish fine woman she’ll make!—you ought to consider yourself a happy fellow." "It is too late," said Will, "to go down to-night. Besides, they don’t expect me until to-morrow."