“I hardly know. I have several portraits on hand that must be finished as soon as possible. But my studio is not habitable yet; it is being painted, and the workpeople are lamentably slow. When these commissions are disposed of, I may go away for several months, perhaps I shall get as far as Constantinople.” “I have often thought that Constantinople must be a most interesting city to visit.” “Oh, very; it is so beautifully situated; there is no other place quite like it.” “No, I have never seen any place like it.” (“I suppose,” Embrance was thinking while she uttered her brilliant remark, “that he was offended at my writing to him.”) “I was a fool to come at all,” said Horace to himself, “but I wanted to see her once more; she looks horribly ill.” “I am sorry to see that you are still lame,” he said, aloud, as Embrance subsided into silence after her last attempt at light conversation. “I am much better,” she said, quickly; “I’m only a little tired this afternoon. Are you looking at the ferns? Joan sent them; she is very well and happy. I often hear from her.” “I am glad of that; I only heard of her marriage by chance, about a fortnight after it took place. Well, I hope it is a happy ending to her many troubles.” “Yes,” said Embrance, quietly, “I hope so.” “You were in her confidence all along, of course, Miss Clemon?” “No, I did not know of her engagement.” “That was really heartless of Joan! I hope you were angry with her?” “No,” said Embrance again, “but I miss her very much.” “I hope that you mean to go and stay with her shortly; the change would do you good.” “I don’t know. I must say good-bye to her, of course, if I go to New Zealand.” It had not seemed so clear to her a quarter of an hour ago that she would accept her aunt’s invitation as it did now. “You would go to your relations—to Mrs. Clemon?” “She wishes it very much,” explained Embrance, remembering how he had once before made a similar question; “if I don’t like it, I am to come back again.” “I think,” said Horace, with a desperate effort to speak naturally, “that the voyage would be an admirable thing for your health. I hope that you will be very happy there. If I can be of any assistance to you in arranging about your passage—in fact, in any way, pray make use of my services.” Painfully conscious that he had delivered this speech very much after the manner of a stage father in a heavy melodrama, he rose to take his leave. Embrance sank back into her chair as he left the room. Five minutes by the clock, his visit had lasted, he had been most kind and considerate, but—she wished that she had never written that letter.