Do you remember Sapho's words: "J'ai tant aime; j'ai besoin d'etre aimee"? Do not let the quotation shock you; neither take it too seriously, I think Mr. Graham--you know Lawrence Graham?--does care as caring goes and as men go. He came out here, on purpose, a fortnight ago, and yesterday we settled it between us.... Gertrude read no further; the thin, closely-written sheet fell from her hand; she sat staring vaguely before her. Conny's letter, with its cheerfulness, partly real, partly affected, hurt her taste, and depressed her rather unreasonably. This was the hardest feature of her lot: for the people she loved, the people who had looked up to her, she had been able to do nothing at all. She was sitting alone in the dismantled studio on this last day of April. To-morrow Lucy and Frank would have returned from Cornwall, and have taken possession of the new home. Her own plans for the present were vague. One of her stories, after various journeys to editorial offices, had at last come back to her in the form of proof, supplemented, moreover, by what seemed to her a handsome cheque. She had arranged, on the strength of this, to visit a friend in Florence, for some months; after that period she would in all probability take part with Lucy in the photography business. There was no fire lighted, and the sun, which in the earlier part of the day had warmed the room, had set. Most of the furniture and properties had already gone to the new studio, but some yet remained, massed and piled in the gloom. The black sign-board, with its gold lettering, stood upright and forlorn in a corner, as though conscious that its day was over for ever. Gertrude had been busying herself with turning out a cupboard, but the light had failed, and she had ceased from her work. A very dark hour came to Gertrude, crouching there in the dusk and cold, amid the dismantled workshop which seemed to symbolize her own life. She who held unhappiness ignoble and cynicism a poor thing, had lost for the moment all joy of living and all belief. The little erection of philosophy, of hope, of self-reliance, which she had been at such pains to build, seemed to be crumbling about her ears; all the struggles and sacrifices of life looked vain things. What had life brought her, but disillusion, bitterness, an added sense of weakness? She rose at last and paced the room. "This will pass," she said to herself; "I am out of sorts; and it is not to be wondered at." She sat down in the one empty chair the room contained, and leaning her head on her hand, let her thoughts wander at will. Her eyes roved about the little dusky room which was so full of memories for her. Shadows peopled it; dream-voices filled it with sound.