“Teresina in London? Surely you must have been mistaken. I thought she was still in Naples?” “She is in London,” Godfrey repeated. “I could not have been mistaken, for I spoke to her.” “At what time did you see her?” “Just about midnight,” his friend replied. “Are you aware that the signora is dead and that Teresina is married?” “How should I be likely to?” said Victor. “You know that I have not seen her since I bade her good-bye in your studio before we went abroad. And so the pretty model is married? Well, I suppose the proper thing to say is that one hopes that she will be happy.” “But she is not happy, far from it. Her husband as well as her mother is dead.” “I believe there are some wives who would consider that fact to be not altogether a matter for sorrow. But what makes you think that Teresina is unhappy?” “Because she told me so, though she would not tell me anything further. The poor girl seemed in terrible distress.” “And you gave her money, I suppose?” said Victor. “That is usually the way one soothes trouble of her kind. I hope she was grateful.” “I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so cynical,” said Godfrey, almost losing his temper. “I wanted to help her, but she would not let me. Every time I offered my assistance she implored me to leave her. She broke down altogether when we reached her house.” “Then you took her home?” said the other. “Do you think that was wise?” “Why should I not have done so?” “Well, you see,” said Victor, putting his brushes back into their case, “circumstances have somewhat changed with you. Miss Devereux might not altogether approve.” “Miss Devereux is too good and kind a girl to object to my doing what I could to comfort an old friend in trouble.” “But when that old friend in trouble happens to be an extremely beautiful girl the situation becomes slightly changed. However, don’t think that I am endeavouring to interfere. And now shall we go downstairs?” “But, confound it, Victor, you don’t mean to say that you take no more interest in Teresina’s fate than this? I thought you liked her as much as I did.” “_Mon cher ami_,” said Victor, rearranging his tie before the glass, “that is scarcely fair, either to yourself or to me. Have you forgotten a little discussion we had together, and which eventually resulted in our leaving England for a time? Had you not taken such an interest in Teresina then, I doubt very much whether I should have seen Cairo or Jerusalem, or a lot of other places. But still, my dear fellow, if there is anything I can do to help your old model you may be sure I shall be only too glad to do it.” “I knew you would,” said Godfrey, placing his hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder. “We must talk it over some time and see what can be done. It will never do to let her go on as she is now.” “You have no idea, I suppose, of the origin of the trouble?”