She would not have used such a comparison in the days before his letters had revealed to her a gospel of passion. His pleasure in hearing the words was mitigated by a critical sense that she had the turn of thought from himself, that it did not come from the fountains of her heart. Few men surpassed Bernard Kingcote in ingenious refinement of self-torture. His faculty in that respect grew daily. “Is any one likely to call this afternoon?” he asked, when they had sat together a little longer. “I don’t expect any one in particular, but it is quite possible.” “Then I will leave you now.” Isabel did not oppose his going. “Oh,” she said, as a thought struck her, “Rhoda and Hilda Meres are going to lunch with me to-morrow, and perhaps Ada, though I don’t know whether she will come. In the afternoon I dare say we shall go to the Academy. Will you be there, and show us Gabriel’s pictures?” He gave a hesitating “Yes.” “Not unless you would like to. Be in the first room about half-past three.” CHAPTER IX. Gabriel’s “Market Night” was well hung, and kept a crowd about it through the day. Prelates, plutocrats, and even the British baby appeared on the whole to be less attractive. Setting aside landscapes, which we paint with understanding, our Exhibition cannot often boast of more than a couple of pictures which invite to a second examination on disinterested grounds; this of the unknown painter addressed itself successfully both to the vulgar and to the cultured. Its technical qualities were held to be high. Some people made a sermon of it,--which the painter never intended. It being Saturday afternoon, Kingcote found himself waiting in a great press at the hour that Isabel had mentioned. The face for which he looked at length shone upon him, and he discerned the two young ladies upon whose appearance he had speculated--Rhoda Meres, with her tall, graceful figure and melancholy prettiness; Hilda, greatly more interesting, of flower-like freshness and purity, her keen look anticipating the pleasure that was before her. Kingcote was conscious of missing some one; whilst he was joining the three, he sought for Ada Warren, but she seemed not to be of the party. He could not understand why her absence should occasion him anything like disappointment, yet it assuredly did. He was wondering whether she had changed at all since he saw her. He was presented to the two girls, and did what he could in the way of amiable interrogation and remark. Hilda, constraining her sisters companionship, began to examine the pictures. “I must keep them within view,” Mrs. Clarendon said to Kingcote, “but I have no intention of wearying myself by walking round each room. You have been here already; you can point out anything you would like me to see. Where are your friend’s?” “Much further on.” “What do you think of these girls?” “The younger one is delightful.”