“Think of him? Oh, I think he’s very good-looking, though less like his sister than I could wish.” “Oh, Sonia, don’t tease me! If I thought you meant that, I should give you up, both as an artist and a friend. But, really, did you like him or not?” “I could hardly say ‘not’ to that heartfelt appeal,” said Sonia, smiling; “and, indeed, I don’t feel inclined to. I liked him, of course. But, my dear, I told you only the truth when I said I was sick to death of men. Etienne is the solitary exception. I like him for the reason that he did say a decent word to me this morning, and I really believe he thinks I am beginning to daub with promise.” Martha saw that there was no hope, so with profound disappointment she gave up, and said no more. As for Sonia herself, never had she been in a state of such abject self-abasement. She had donned her gorgeous raiment and gone off to that dinner in exultant self-confidence, and had never doubted her ability to conform circumstances to her will, and to make exactly the impression upon Harold which she desired him to have. What, then, was the secret of her complete and humiliating failure? She asked herself this question, and immediately tried to shut fast her ears to the answer which her heart gave. She had confidently believed, up to this hour of her life, that her woman’s pride was strong enough for any demands which she could possibly make upon it; but it had failed her. She had passed a sleepless night after that dinner, and it took tremendous effort to go to her work next morning. She did it only because she knew that if she did not the news of her absence would reach Harold, and she could not endure the thought of the motive to which he might attribute it. Perhaps the most poignant recollection which rankled in Sonia’s mind was the thought that, in her helplessness, she had made an appeal to him by that look which he had answered with such strength-giving kindness. It had enabled her to get through with the remaining time; but now, as she thought of it, she felt that he had taken it as an appeal of weakness which he had been strong and merciful enough to respond to. This thought, whenever it recurred, made her cheeks tingle. And what could she do to right herself? She dared not make any more self-confident plans, only to have them end in fresh humiliation. She now felt afraid of seeing Harold, and it seemed to her that the utmost that was in her power was to be regular and faithful to her work, in the hope that the report of such a sensible course would reach his ears.