He was very happy, with ample leisure for his art; and, alas for the weakness of earth's grandest spirit! there was one other passion besides his worship of art which absorbed the painter's mind in these quiet January days. Mrs. Champernowne had returned to the Hermitage before Christmas, and had been pleased to write a little note of inquiry about Mr. Crawford's labours, and had been pleased to welcome him graciously when he called in response to her note, and to bestow her sweetest smiles upon him whenever he chose to visit her. His visits to the Hermitage had been very frequent of late, and it seemed as if the fascinating Georgina could not see him too often. She talked of his art and of his own special triumphs that had been and were yet to be, with as much appearance of interest as if she had been his sister or his wife; for sisters are not always given to enthusiasm upon the subject of a brother's successes. She made him strong tea; she played Mozart to him; she ordered her niece to sing pretty little ballads for his pleasure; she spent a small fortune in the purchase of French and German photographs in order to have something new to show him whenever he came to the Hermitage; but in the presence of other people she always carefully avoided any thing like _empressement_ in her manner to the great painter. "She is very cautious," he thought bitterly. "It amuses her to indulge me as she indulges her cats; but if I were to tell her that I adore her, and that she has rendered my life a burden to me without her, she would elevate her eyebrows with the most innocent air of surprise, and demand what justification she had given me for my presumption." But in spite of this conviction the painter was a constant visitor in that tranquil abode, where there was always a faint odour of hyacinth and myosotis, and a delicious atmosphere of repose not to be found elsewhere. Ah, if the lively matrons, the brilliant rattles, only knew the profound charm which a wise man finds in the companionship of a quiet woman! Mr. Crawford dined sometimes with the widow, who altered her old-fashioned hours, and took her dinner at seven to serve his convenience. The little dining-room at the Hermitage was very delightful to the painter, with its sombre colouring of grey and green, its few perfect bronzes, and three or four rare pictures, and instead of the glare of gas, the subdued light of half-a-dozen yellow wax candles in antique silver candlesticks. The widow's dinners were perfection on a small scale; her wines were of the rarest and best; and above and beyond all this, she possessed the talent of bringing together people who suited one another. William Crawford abandoned himself entirely to the dangerous delights of this acquaintance. The cup which the siren's hand offered his thirsty lips contained a beverage which he knew to be poisonous; but he drank nevertheless, and grasped the fatal chalice with a feverish eagerness.