After a while she slept heavily, wakening late in the morning, parched and unrefreshed. She was not hungry, but drank her tea eagerly, feeling refreshed for a time. The following night she placed the decanter of brandy and the water carafe on the table by her bedside, and as soon as she became restless had recourse to them. This time the spirit did not soothe but excited her; wild, aimless thoughts chased one another rapidly, until it seemed as if her brain would burst. She drank again, pouring out a larger amount of the brandy than before; stupor, then restless slumber resulting. The thought of each approaching night came to be a terror by day. She sat up late reading—reading until her eyes fell heavy with sleep. Then to bed and to sleeplessness. She saw no one; Geraldstein had dropped her; West did not come, and she did not see anything of Mortimer. Mrs. Harding came in once or twice, but her presence was an irritation. Then came the appointed day for her going to Maddison, and, to her surprise, it was with a sense almost of relief that she found herself in the train, speeding away from London. He met her at the station, and although he said little, she could not but discern in his face the intense joy it was to him to see her again. He looked tired and troubled; even the light of love that sprang into his eyes as they rested on her did not dispel from them the curious look that shows in them when a man is eagerly searching after that which he cannot find. As it was raining they drove the whole way to the cottage, not talking much as they went, he seemingly content to be quiet, holding her hand tightly in his own. Mrs. Witchout greeted Marian cordially. “You don’t lookaswell, though, as when you went away,” she said critically; “does she, Mr. Maddison? I do hear as rosy cheeks ain’t the fashun in Lunnon. But, there, Lunnon fashuns ain’t the onlyonesworth follering. Lunch is ready; Mr. Maddison says I ought to call it luncheon, but I don’t see that it matters what you callthingso long as peopleknows whatyermeans.” “And how’s the work getting on?” Marian asked, as they went into the studio. “Lamely. Only hobbling. I’ve finished Mrs. West. What do _you_ think of it?” “What does she is more to the point?” “No; what do you?” Marian looked long at the portrait before she answered. It was evidently very like the original, but there was something in the face that puzzled her. “You told me she was a doll!” she exclaimed. “Yes, but I’ve discovered that dolls have hearts as well as sawdust in them.” “Oh!” “Is that all you notice?” “Ye-es, I think so,” she answered. “I like it.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, and moved her so that the light fell full upon her face; then scanned her features closely. “I’m right,” he said, “right. Go and look in the glass there, then look at the picture again, and see if _you_ don’t find something of yourself reflected in what I meant to be a portrait of another woman.”