Turning to glance at Madeline, he was startled and surprised. She was gazing now at the picture with the very expression depicted in it; all life, all pleasure seemed to have faded out of her face, leaving nothing but blankness there, and the shadow of a painful dream. Her thoughts seemed to have wandered far away, and have left her unconscious of the presence in which she stood. But while he gazed the look faded, and the light came back to her eyes. Meeting his gaze she smiled, and held out her hand. ‘I must go now,’ she said; ‘my sitting is over, and I am already past my time.’ ‘Do you ride or walk?’ asked Forster. ‘I am going to walk across the park, and then, at the Marble Arch, I shall take a cab.’ ‘May I offer myself as an escort?’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I am going that way, and--and------’ He paused, smiling benignly and blushing boyishly, but Madeline at once put her hand upon his arm and accepted his escort with a happy smile. Serena saw them to the door, and watched them as they walked chatting up the street. ‘I think I know the signs,’ muttered the painter to himself, ‘and if Forster is not fascinated, Eros Athanatos is no true god. Well, so be it. It will be none the worse for my pictures, and a splendid thing for the girl.’ Left alone with Madeline, Forster felt constrained and a little uneasy, but her perfect simplicity and frankness soon put him entirely at his ease. She was indeed happy beyond measure in his accidental companionship. Since her early childhood his name had been familiar to her as that of one whom White emphatically pronounced to be ‘the best man he had ever known or hoped to know,’ and his perfect gentleness and kindliness, which impressed even the most casual observer of his countenance, won the open-hearted girl at once. Leaning lightly on his arm, she chatted away frankly and fearlessly, as she might have done to White himself. Frank without boldness, fearless without forwardness, in every word and gesture free and _spirituelle_ without affectation, she fairly won her way to his heart of hearts. Talking with her was like talking with a child; she was so unconscious of herself, so un reserved; and this, seeing her wonderful physical beauty, constituted at once her peril and her charm. Passing in at Albert Gate, they crossed Rotten Row, and strolled quietly across the park. It was a bright golden day, and Madeline, always the creature of physical and external impressions, seemed to kindle into new gladness. She looked at the fair horsewomen, of whom there was a fair sprinkling already, though it was early in the afternoon, and laughed for pleasure. ‘Do you like riding?’ she asked. ‘I have never ridden; but I think if I were on a horse’s back, I could ride--and ride--and ride--and never stop.’ ‘You would find it duller than you think,’ said Forster. ‘I ride here often, and do not think it very amusing.’ To his astonishment Madeline asked, quietly-- ‘Does Mrs. Forster ride?’