“See him--no, not then, but if there isn’t any trial, you will have him back here painting as usual next spring, I should think.” Jane Anne seized Egidia’s hand and kissed it. “Oh, ma’am, ma’am, you know I never wanted nothing but that. I knew well enough he could never be anything to such as me, but I didn’t want him to marry anyone else.” * * * * * “I did not expect him to marry me, but oh, I could not bear him to marry any one else!” That phrase of the country girl’s was in Egidia’s ears all day as the train bore her southwards, her mission accomplished, and Phœbe Elles and Rivers for ever divided, by her means. She had done it, and for what motive? Now that it was done, the spirit of self-analysis tormented the woman of letters skilled in the art of heart-searching. The happiness of Rivers was her object, and that she had been convinced lay in his continued celibacy. She herself had nothing to gain by it, wished to gain nothing by it. “I do not, I do not, if I have to go into a convent to prove it!” she said out aloud, in the solitude of the railway carriage. “I am glad we are cousins!” she added, mentally. “All women are dogs in the manger, when the man they love is concerned!” was her reflection with reference to Jane Anne’s pathetic speech. The devotion of the servant for the artist revolted while it touched her. “I wonder how many more there are of us?” she wondered bitterly. “And his method--indifference, and innate incapacity to make any woman really happy. Those are the men who are beloved.... Phœbe Elles is saved--but she won’t think so. So is Edmund--but he won’t admit it, perhaps. At any rate, I do not profit. If I did, I would kill myself!” CHAPTER XVI She drove up to Queen Anne’s Mansions in the dusk, and was whirled up in the lift and deposited in front of her own door. She inserted her little latchkey--gilded, but practical--into the key-hole. The drawing-room, she saw, glancing through the iridescent panes at the side of the door, was lighted up. “She is at home, then,” she thought to herself. “Dear, sweet, tiresome little thing that she is. Entertaining Dr. André with strong tea, and weak philosophy, no doubt. But now that I have got her out of this mess, I intend to wash my hands of her and her amatory affairs. I am sure I hope I may never again see a situation so at first hand. I prefer to invent them myself. It is less wearing in the long run.” But there was no one with Mrs. Elles, the servant said, Mrs. Elles had been at home all day, had eaten hardly any lunch, and had just sent off a telegram. “Some new folly, I suppose?” thought Egidia. “Luckily, it does not matter now.” She opened the drawing-room door. “Well, Phœbe,” she said in jubilant tones, before she had passed the portière, “congratulate me! I have saved you--at least I think I have.”