“Did it never occur to you to re-marry me after the death of either of your husbands?” asked Karne, still inclined to be satirical; “or was I altogether out of the running, as you would say?” “I did think of it,” she answered equably. “But you lived in the country, which was a disadvantage, for I could not possibly exist for any length of time out of London or Paris. I heard also that you were very friendly with Percival’s people, the Milnes; and I feared that if you were as straitlaced as themselves, you would be too prim for me.” Herbert could not resist a smile, but his countenance quickly resumed its gravity. He rose from his seat and glanced out of the window. The fog had almost melted away. “So that is your story!” he said meditatively. “How am I to know that it is true?” “Do you doubt my word?” she asked with pique. “Well, not exactly,” he replied hesitatingly. “But you must admit that when I knew you, you did occasionally deviate from the truth.” “Which means, in vulgar parlance, that I told lies,” she rejoined evenly. “Thank you for the compliment. As it happens, however, I have told you the exact truth. My reason for telling you was that I wish to settle up all my affairs. I am shortly going away--a little further than my beloved Paris. In plain words, Herbert, I am dying.” The last statement was made so calmly that Karne thought he could not have heard aright. He glanced at her in astonishment, almost dumbfounded by the news. Mrs. Neville Williams, with a swift movement, extinguished the lamp, and pulling up the window-blinds allowed the daylight to flood the room. Then she called the artist to her side. “Now,” she exclaimed, turning her face towards him, “look at me!” He looked, then gave an exclamation of horror. Could it be possible that this was the handsome and brilliant woman of yesternight? Her cheeks were haggard and drawn, the cheek-bones protruding with undue prominence; her eyes were sunken, her complexion yellow. Already the hand of death seemed to have set its seal upon her face. Yet only last night she had appeared before him, magnificent and splendid. What had happened in one short night to change her thus? He turned aside, not knowing what to say. She sank on to a chair with a mirthless laugh. “A clever woman, am I not?” she said, with feigned cheerfulness. “Clever to the last. You saw me last night, so you know how I looked. I shall look just as well when I am dressed for dinner this evening; I have a treasure of a maid, thank heaven. Any other woman afflicted with my disease would allow herself to be treated as an invalid, would eschew society, and go to bed. I have more pluck than that. And yet before the year is out, I shall probably be dead. A truly cheerful prospect, is it not?” Herbert felt himself grow cold. That she spoke the truth now, he could not doubt; but it was positively gruesome to hear her talk like that.