She started a little as the handle of the door turned, and Mrs. Maryon announced Lord Watergate. She gave him her hand with a little smile: "Have you been in the studio?" she said, as they both seated themselves. "Yes; Jermyn opened the door himself, and insisted on my coming in, though, to tell you the truth, I should have hesitated about entering had I had any choice in the matter--which I hadn't." "Lucy has picked up wonderfully, hasn't she?" "She looks her old self already. Jermyn tells me they are to be married almost immediately." "Yes. I suppose they told you also that Lucy is going to carry on the business afterwards." "In the old place?" "No. We have got rid of the rest of the lease, and they propose moving into some place where studios for both of them can be arranged." "And you?" "It is uncertain. I think Lucy will want me for the photography." "Miss Lorimer, first of all you must do something to get well. You will break down altogether if you don't." Something in the tone of the blunt words startled her; she turned away, a nameless terror taking possession of her. "Oh, I shall be all right after a little holiday." "You have been looking after everybody else; doing everybody's work, bearing everybody's troubles." He stopped short suddenly, and added, with less earnestness, "_Quis custodet custodiem?_ Do you know any Latin, Miss Lorimer?" She rose involuntarily; then stood rather helplessly before him. It was ridiculous that these two clever people should be so shy and awkward; those others down below in the studio had never undergone any such uncomfortable experience; but then neither had had to graft the new happiness on an old sorrow; for neither had the shadow of memory darkened hope. Gertrude went over to the mantelshelf, and began mechanically arranging some flowers in a vase. For once, she found Lord Watergate's presence disturbing and distressing; she was confused, unhappy, distrustful of herself; she wished when she turned her head that she would find him gone. But he was standing near her, a look of perplexity, of trouble, in his face. "Miss Lorimer," he said, and there was no mistaking the note in his voice, "have I come too soon? Is it too soon for me to speak?" She was overwhelmed, astonished, infinitely agitated. Her soul shrank back afraid. What had the closer human relations ever brought her but sorrow unutterable, unending? Some blind instinct within her prompted her words, as she said, lifting her head, with the attitude of one who would avert an impending blow-- "Oh, it is too soon, too soon." He stood a moment looking at her with his deep eyes. "I shall come back," he said. "No, oh, no!" She hid her face in her hands, and bent her head to the marble. What he offered was not for her; for other women, for happier women, for better women, perhaps, but not for her. When she raised her head he was gone.