Her voice sank into a melancholy cadence, and Valdis studied her delicate profile in the darkening light with passionate tenderness in his eyes. But he did not speak, and after a little pause she went on dreamily, more to herself than to him,— ‘Notoriety is a warm, noisy thing—personified, it is like a fat, comfortable woman who comes into your rooms perspiring, laughing, talking with all the gossip of the town at her tongue’s end, who folds you in her arms whether you like it or not, and tells you you are a “dear,” and wants to know where you get your gowns made and what you had for dinner—the very essence of broad and vulgar good humour! Fame is like a great white angel, who points you up to a cold, sparkling, solitary mountain-top away from the world, and bids you stay there alone, with the chill stars shining down on you. And people look up at you and pass; you are too far off for the clasp of friendship; you are too isolated for the caress of love; and your enemies, unable to touch you, stare insolently, smile and cry aloud, “So you have climbed to the summit at last! Well, much good may it do you! Stay there, live there, and die there, as you must, alone for ever!” And I think it is hard to be alone, don’t you?’ Her words were tremulous, and Valdis saw tears in her eyes. They had wandered on unconsciously, and were close to the pier, which was deserted save for the weather-beaten old mariner, who sat in his little box at the entrance waiting for the pennies that were rather slow in coming in at that particular time of year. Valdis passed himself and his companion through the turn-stile, and they walked side by side on towards the solemn shadows of the murmuring sea. ‘Now that we have a few minutes together, you can surely tell me what it is that has gone wrong with you, Lady Carlyon,’ he said, his rich voice softening to a great tenderness. ‘I am your friend, as you know. I imagined that your displeasure at that paragraph in _Honesty_ would have been very great, and justly so; but I begin to fear it is something more serious that makes you seem so unlike yourself—’ She interrupted him by a light touch on his arm. ‘Is that true? Do you find me changed?’ And she raised her eyes trustingly to his. He met that confiding look for a moment, then turned away lest the deep love of his soul should be betrayed. ‘You are not changed in appearance—no!’ he said slowly, ‘You are always lovely. But there is a great sadness in your face. I cannot help seeing that.’ She laughed a little, then sighed. ‘I should have made a very bad actress,’ she said; ‘I cannot put a complete disguise on my thoughts. You are right; I am sad; as sad as any woman can be in the world. I have lost my husband’s love.’ He started. ‘You have heard all, then;—you know?’ She stopped in her walk and faced him steadily.