A dry, grey day in March. It was "Show Sunday," that institution in the art world, when the painter opens his studio to his friends and the public, to show them the picture he is about to send to the Academy. The exhibition is in many instances but the showing beforehand of the garlands of victory in a battle which is doomed to be lost, for when the opening day comes, many of the anxious artists do not have the luck to see their pictures hung at all. Then insincere admirers smile in their sleeves at the painter's chagrin. I have always been thankful that the happy writer of books has no such ordeal to face. He never reads his new romance to his friends, nor do his well-wishers applaud in advance. Reviewers have first tilt at "advance copies," and very properly. From morn till eve on "Show Sunday," Campden Hill is always blocked by the carriages of the curious, and studios are besieged by fashionable crowds, whose chatter and laughter mingles pleasantly with the clinking of tea-cups. On this occasion, as on previous ones, I assisted Dick to receive his visitors, but unfortunately Ethel had been taken suddenly unwell, and could not attend. My anticipations proved correct. "Circe" was voted an unqualified success. The opinions of critics who dropped in were unanimous that it was the artist's masterpiece, and that the expression and general conception were marvellous--a verdict endorsed by gushing society women, bored club men, and the inane _jeunesse doree_. A scrap of conversation I overheard in the course of the afternoon, however, caused me to ponder. An elderly man, evidently a foreigner, wearing the violet ribbon of the French Academy in his buttonhole, was standing with a young girl in the crowd around the easel. "Why, look, papa! That face!" the girl cried, when her eyes fell upon the canvas. "It is _her_ portrait! Surely the Signore cannot know!" "_Dio_!" exclaimed the old man, evidently recognising the features. "The picture is indeed magnificent; but to think that she should allow herself to appear in that character! Come away, Zelie; let us go." I heard no more, for they turned and left. Having acted as eavesdropper, I could hardly question them. Nevertheless, I was sorely puzzled. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Look! Read that!" In surprise I glanced up from my work of romance-weaving on the following morning, and saw Dick, pale and agitated, standing at my elbow. The letter he placed before me was in a woman's hand, and emitted the faintest breath of violets. A glance was sufficient to recognise that the sprawly writing was Ethel's. Taking it up, I eagerly read the following lines it contained:--