He knew too well how far she was removed from him by more than distance, and bravely contented himself with merely giving her such news of the farm and her former home surroundings as might awaken her momentary interest without recalling too many old memories to her mind. She seemed, and to a very great extent she was, unconscious of the interest and curiosity both her work and her personality excited--the more so now as the glamour and delight of her creative imagination had been obscured by what she considered a far greater and more lasting glory--that of love!--the golden mirage of a fancied sun, which for a time had quenched the steadier shining of eternal stars. Since that ever memorable night when he had suddenly stormed the fortress of her soul, and by the mastery of a lover's kiss had taken full possession, Amadis de Jocelyn had pursued his "amour" with admirable tact, cleverness and secrecy. He found a new and stimulating charm in making love to a tender-hearted, credulous little creature who seemed truly "of such stuff as dreams are made of"--and to a man of his particular type and temperament there was an irresistible provocation to his vanity in the possibility of being able to lure her gradually and insidiously down from the high ground of intellectual ambition and power to the low level of that pitiful sex-submission which is responsible for so much more misery than happiness in this world. Little by little, under his apparently brusque and playful, but really studied training, she began to think less and less of her work,--the books she had loved to read and refer to, insensibly lost their charm,--she went reluctantly to her desk, and as reluctantly took up her pen,--what she had written already, appeared to her utterly worthless,--and what she attempted to write now was to her mind poor and unsatisfying. She was not moved by the knowledge, constantly pressed upon her, that she was steadily rising, despite herself, to the zenith of her career in such an incredibly swift and brilliant way as to be the envy of all her contemporaries,--she was hardly as grateful for her honours as weary of them and a little contemptuous. What did it all matter to her when half of her once busy working mornings were now often passed in the studio of Amadis de Jocelyn! He was painting a full-length portrait of her--a mere excuse to give her facilities for visiting him, and ensure his own privacy and convenience in receiving her--and every day she went to him, sometimes late in the afternoons as well as the mornings, slipping in and out familiarly and quite unnoticed, for he had given her a key to the private door of his studio, which was reached through a small, deeply shaded garden, abutting on an old-fashioned street near Holland Park. She could enter at any time, and thought it was the customary privilege accorded by an artist to his sitter, while it saved the time and trouble of the