"I am sorry that it should ever have begun," responded he painter passionately; "do you think a man has no more heart nor mind than one of your Angora cats? Do you think you can play with his heart for a year or two, and then give it back to him none the worse for your year's amusement, and tell him to take it somewhere else? You have no right to trifle with honest men as you have trifled with me. You have no right to encourage my folly for your own amusement, and then tell me that you never thought I was in earnest. You knew that I was in earnest; and it was because of my earnestness that you found me more amusing than your other admirers. Where they burned the conventional flame that passes in society for real fire, I consume my heart and soul; and now you affect unconsciousness. You offer me your friendship; the right to go on being miserable, the privilege of sacrificing my life and my heart for the sake of an occasional hour in your drawing-room. You have been selfish and cruel, Mrs. Champernowne." He walked to the window, turning his back upon the siren. But the siren was not made angry by this discourtesy. She was sincerely sorry for his grief and his passion. It was the story of Dido and Æneas over again; only in this modern instance of the classic legend, it was the lady who was cool and clear-headed, and the gentleman who was passionate and unreasonable. The painter threw himself into a chair, by the fire-place; and sat with his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his face hidden by his hand. Miss Vicary, who had been flitting restlessly about the garden, came towards the window at this moment; but the widow waved her back with a gesture which was unseen by William Crawford. He had been sitting in the same attitude for some minutes, when his visitor came softly to the hearth, and seated herself in the chair opposite to him. "Come, Mr. Crawford, let us talk seriously," she said. "I have been only too serious from first to last."