In ten days from the date of their arrival at Munich, the crisis came. Ernest returned later than usual from the picture-gallery, and--for the first time in his wife's experience--shut himself up in his own room. He appeared at the dinner-hour with a futile excuse. Mrs. Lismore waited until the servant had withdrawn. "Now, Ernest," she said, "it's time to tell me the truth." Her manner, when she said those few words, took him by surprise. She was unquestionably confused; and, instead of lookin g at him, she trifled with the fruit on her plate. Embarrassed on his side, he could only answer: "I have nothing to tell." "Were there many visitors at the gallery?" she asked. "About the same as usual." "Any that you particularly noticed?" she went on. "I mean, among the ladies." He laughed uneasily. "You forget how interested I am in the pictures," he said. There was a pause. She looked up at him--and suddenly looked away again. But he saw it plainly: there were tears in her eyes. "Do you mind turning down the gas?" she said. "My eyes have been weak all day." He complied with her request--the more readily, having his own reasons for being glad to escape the glaring scrutiny of the light. "I think I will rest a little on the sofa," she resumed. In the position which he occupied, his back would have been now turned on her. She stopped him when he tried to move his chair. "I would rather not look at you, Ernest," she said, "when you have lost confidence in me." Not the words, but the tone, touched all that was generous and noble in his nature. He left his place, and knelt beside her--and opened to her his whole heart. "Am I not unworthy of you?" he asked, when it was over. She pressed his hand in silence. "I should be the most ungrateful wretch living," he said, "if I did not think of you, and you only, now that my confession is made. We will leave Munich to-morrow--and, if resolution can help me, I will only remember the sweetest woman my eyes ever looked on as the creature of a dream." She hid her face on his breast, and reminded him of that letter of her writing, which had decided the course of their lives. "When I thought you might meet the happy woman in my life-time, I said to you, 'Tell me of it--and I promise to tell _her_ that she has only to wait.' Time must pass, Ernest, before it can be needful to perform my promise. But you might let me see her. If you find her in the gallery to-morrow, you might bring her here." Mrs. Lismore's request met with no refusal. Ernest was only at a loss to know how to grant it. "You tell me she is a copyist of pictures," his wife reminded him. "She will be interested in hearing of the portfolio of drawings by the great French artists which I bought for you in Paris. Ask her to come and see them, and to tell you if she can make some copies. And say, if you like, that I shall be glad to become acquainted with her."