And at last they left the Temple, and going down the steps met Mr Barringcourt coming up them. For the Temple was one of his especial interests. He spent much wealth and thought upon it. And Marigold felt all the passion of pride lash up in her, the scars on her neck red-hot, the wounds in her heart new opened--those raw wounds that would not, would not close and heal. For all that day she had expected a humble letter of apology, and none had come. And if it had come, the old French proverb stealing to her mind would have surely made her tear it in a thousand pieces. But of this she never thought. If only he would have said that he was sorry (and set them both in a most ridiculous position). But neither of this did she think. She thought of nothing tangibly. Why should she?--feeling so much. So now she bowed very coldly, and the High Priest saluted him as stiffly, for, since St Armand’s few gliding, simple words, suspicion and dislike had filled his heart. And somehow in the glance the Master gave to Marigold he detected something the jealous lover, though a slave, might take amiss. He remembered what St Armand had said about the beggar girl and this same man, and therefore would have passed him. But Marigold, woman-like, having one man there for a protection, felt fully capable of fighting with the other. “Mr Barringcourt,” said she, standing two steps above him, and remembering St Armand’s words to good effect quite suddenly, that she had no heart. “Mr Barringcourt, we have been talking about you.” “Indeed!” “Yes; you have only to tell the High Priest when your birthday is, and you will receive the loveliest present.” He did not answer, and Marigold was pleased, because he was looking at her in a troubled, puzzled way that was a great advance upon the weeks of constant coldness and dislike. So she continued: “In the Temple there is the portrait of a lady, quite a masterpiece of art. But, by mistake, they’ve put her with the saints, and she was nothing but a sinner. And so I’ve advised the High Priest to send her on to you.” And she laughed in his face--carelessly, lightly, almost contemptuously--and went on down the steps, the High Priest escorting her. “There now!” said she, “you have been so kind to me all afternoon that you must still be kinder. I cannot walk home; you must drive me to the Palace gates--no further. I’ve enjoyed this afternoon so much, I’ll come again.” And Marigold’s heart being broken, her voice was full of gaiety, her laughter sparkling. And the High Priest drove her to the gates, and wanted badly to walk across the park with her; but she would not let him, only she smiled at him as they parted, and the footman and coachman prevented him doing anything rash. And Mr Barringcourt, left alone, stood till the carriage had left the Temple place, and then very slowly passed on into the Temple. And his steps turned to the Crockerby panels, the sixth and greatest masterpiece.