“Never even washed myself. By George! I was glad to get home and have a good wash. I was a sorry-looking object--haggard and unshaven.” “Where did you say you had been to?” “Nobody asked me.” “Not Maggie?” “No; I didn't tell you our engagement is broken off.” “No; you didn't say nothing about it.” “On account of you. She discovered that you had been to my studio, and she said I was keeping a woman in Brighton.” “Keeping a woman in Brighton--she thinks you are keeping me! I will write to her and tell her that it is not true. What right has she to say such things about me?” “She doesn't say it about you. She says a woman.” “She means me.” “No, she doesn't; she doesn't know anything about you. Some one told her I went into Brighton every day by the four o'clock train, and she put two and two or rather two and three together, and said it was six.” “But I will write to her. I will not be the cause of any one's marriage being broken off.” “You need not trouble. I saw her last night, and I could have made it all right had I chosen--she was quite willing.” “You can't care for her!” “I suppose not. I don't think I ever really loved her. I thought I did. I was mistaken.” “You are very changeable.” “No, I don't think I am--at least not so far as you are concerned. I was mistaken. I was in love with some one else--with you.” “With me?” “Yes, with you. I was in love with you when we went to Reading, and never got over it. I thought I had, but when love is real we never get over it. I always loved you, and those four days I spent nursing you have brought it all out. I shall never love any one else. I know you don't care for me; you said once you couldn't care for me.” “I! I am too miserable to care for any one. I wish you had let me die; but that is ungrateful. You must excuse me, I am so miserable. Why speak of loving me? I can love no one. I don't care what becomes of me. I am ruined; nothing matters now.” “I wish you would confide in me; you can trust me. Has he forsaken you? Can you not make it up?” “No, never now; I shall never see him again.” “Has anything happened lately, since you came to Brighton?” Lizzie nodded. “Don't cry like that; tell me about it.” “What's the use? Nothing matters now.” “Has he been here?” Lizzie nodded, and Frank folded the shawl about her, and wiped her tears away with his pocket handkerchief. “Since you were ill?” “No, before I was ill; he was down here watching me. He found out I had gone to your studio, and he said the most dreadful things--that he would break your head, and that I had never been true to him, and that I was not fit to be the wife of an honest man.” “But I will tell him that you came to my studio to sit for your portrait.” “No, you mustn't write; it would only make matters worse. No use; he says he will never see me again.” “Where can I see him? Has he gone back to London? I will follow him and tell him he is mistaken.”