"I believe in the transmigration of souls, and that Mrs. Champernowne is Cleopatra," said a young poet whom the widow had admitted into the innermost circle of her intimates. "It's not to be supposed that such a woman as that is only meant to last half a century. There must be a principle of economy in nature by which the souls of the mighty are utilised. I know where to put my hand upon all the great men of the past. I have dined at the Garrick with Shakespeare, and I can show you Snyders's house in St. John's Wood; and I have smoked a pipe with Murillo at Kensington, and have seen John van Eyck putting the last touches to his draperies on the Sunday before he sent his picture to the Academy. I used to lift my hat to poor Harry Fielding, who now lies buried at Kensal Green; and I have bought a cigar-case of genial-hearted Peg Woffington at a fancy fair. Mrs. Champernowne is Cleopatra. You can see the Egyptian tint in her complexion after eighteen centuries; and her cats are lineal descendants from the sacred animal of Memphis. She sits in her easy-chair in the very attitude in which she sat in her galley when she went to meet Antony; and sometimes, when she is _distrait_, I fancy she is thinking of Actium." In the presence of his divinity for the first time after some months, William Crawford strove in vain to suppress all semblance of emotion. She was dearer to him than he had ever dared to confess to himself. He tried to beguile himself with the belief that he was only fascinated by her, that the admiration which he felt for her arose only from his artistic sense of her grace. But in her presence all reasoning was vain, and he knew that he loved her. To be near her was so deep a joy that he feared to speak, lest in some wild impulse of rapture he should reveal his secret. He sat opposite to her in silence, with the faint glow of the fire upon his face. "I hope you have not been working too hard," she said presently, when the cat had clambered upon her shoulder, and she had leant her head against the soft white fur. It was very little to say, and it was an expression of sympathy that William Crawford was in the habit of hearing from all manner of people; but from this woman it seemed so much.