apartment of a friend, a brother artist, unfortunately not a Skaife, to breathe justice or patience to him, but a man to whom woman had ever been a merely beautiful creation for art to copy, soulless, and unworthy a higher place in man's thought. To him Tremenhere told all, coolly, dispassionately from the first, not to seek counsel, but to act for, and with him. His listener shrugged his shoulder and smiled. "Well," he said, "'tis better thus, perhaps; for with your genius, you will rise to high things _alone_. Hampered with a wife and children, you would possibly have remained stationary, a good father of a family, fit only to paint a _bonne mère_ and her _bambins_!--leave such positions to others--soar, _mon ami_--soar!" Alas! he overlooked the fact, that to every one possessing real heart and soul--soaring is sorry work when there is no loving eye to mark our flight. "Now, what can I do for you? command me," said his friend. "See her!" answered Tremenhere sternly. "I would not leave that woman unprovided for; arrange how and where she will receive it; you will have tears and prayers--_I_ have had them; disregard them, be firm, tell her _we never meet again_; do not say where I am; remove all my paintings--all--I will give you written authority to do so. Arrange every thing; and then I have other work for you. Stay, I will write one line to her; and that will be a warrant for all you may do." And with a calmness, amazing to himself, he sat down and wrote coldly, dispassionately, to her; merely saying he knew all. He did not condescend even to tell her his accusations, adding, "of course, what I _know_, will reach you from another quarter. 'Tis vain to seek an interview; nothing shall induce me to see you--throw off all disguise, 'twill suit you better than this audacious duplicity. Farewell."