Celia, with praiseworthy calmness, was bathing his face, whilst Higgins attempted to remove his blackened dress-coat, the left sleeve of which had been partly burnt away. One servant was hunting for lint, another for iodoform, a third for vaseline; but Lady Marjorie saw none of them. She was conscious only of that white set face with the long black lashes drooping over the pallid cheeks. Flinging off her cloak, she bent over him, and began whispering all the endearing names she could think of. Conventional discretion was for the moment set aside. Presently he seemed to regain consciousness; and, at a look of warning from Celia, she removed the diamond star which blazed on her breast, casting it heedlessly on the floor. A quivering of the eyelids, a slight moan; and then the sufferer looked up and met her gaze. “Thank God!” she ejaculated under her breath. “Oh, Herbert darling, I thought you were dead!” He tried to smile, but the pain in his arm caused his face to contract in agony. Then--“The picture?” he gasped. It was for that he had risked his life. “That’s all right, sir; it’s quite safe,” Higgins assured him; and with a sigh he closed his eyes again. After what seemed an eternity, Dr. Forrest arrived. Herbert’s arm was badly burnt from the shoulder to the elbow, but the doctor feared the effect of the shock even more than the actual injury. He prescribed absolute quietude for his patient, and with firm but kindly insistence persuaded Lady Marjorie to return to her home. She did not want to go, and could hardly bear to tear herself away, but she was sensible enough to admit that she could do no good by remaining. The doctor reminded her also that she had her servants and horses to consider. So once more she bent over Herbert to say good-bye. He was more comfortable now, and his face had relaxed its expression of pain. Feeling the fragrance of her perfumed hair, he opened his eyes, and there was a look in them she had never seen before--a look which made her heart beat high. With her face close to his she whispered her farewell, and listened joyfully to his murmured response-- “I’m all right now, little woman. Good-bye.” Then she kissed Celia, and, putting on her cloak again, went forth to resume her interrupted drive. The fire appeared to be totally extinguished by this time; but the hose continued to play upon the heated roof. Two of the engines were about to depart, one having already left. Lady Marjorie watched them with mingled feelings. She regretted the damage to the studio and paintings, she grieved for the painful injury to Herbert’s arm; but if, as she diffidently hoped, the fire had been the means of kindling the artist’s love for herself, both he and she would forget the temporary misfortune in the aftermath of joy that would be theirs. CHAPTER XII A WOMAN’S LOVE