And then, without any warning, she burst into a paroxysm of tears. For a moment I stared at her stupified, and then slipped out of the room to fetch a glass of water. When I came back M. was sunk down in his armchair, and she was crouching on the ground before him almost beside herself, holding him by the feet. "Let me live with you," she gasped half distraught. "Arthur hates me, and I'm frightened of him. He's mad, mad, mad, only Dr. Giles pretends he isn't, and Mrs. Robinson pretends; everything in that dreadful house is pretence, nothing real anywhere. Let me live with you. Then he'll divorce me, and you needn't marry me. I don't want to be married. I won't be any trouble to you. No pretty clothes, no amusements, no expense. I don't want anything except a little time to myself, to paint." "You poor soul," said the painter faintly, and in his harsh voice was an infinite compassion. "Help me to jump out," she shrieked, clinging to him. "My child," he said. "I cannot help you. I am dying. I could not live long enough even to blacken your name. I have failed others in the past whom I might have succoured. Now I fail you as I failed them. There is no help in me." He closed his eyes, but nevertheless two very small tears crept from beneath the wrinkled lids, and stood in the furrows of his cheeks. She trembled and then rose slowly to her feet, and obediently took the glass of water which I proffered to her. She drank a little, and then placed the glass carefully on the table and drew on her gloves. I saw that she had withdrawn once more after a terrible bid for freedom into her fortress of reserve. She was once more the impassive, colourless creature whom I had seen almost daily for a year without knowing in the least until to-day what she really was. "I ought to be going back now," she said to me. "I will take you home," I said. She went slowly up to M. and stood before him. I had never seen her look so beautiful. The old man looked at her fixedly. "I made up my mind," she said, "after I spoke to Dr. Giles that I would never try to jump out any more, but you see I did." "Forgive me," he said brokenly, holding out a shaking hand. "It's not your fault," she said, clasping his hand in both of hers. "You are good, and you understand. You are the only person I have ever met who would help me if you could. But no one can help me. No one." And very reverently, very tenderly, she kissed his leaden hand and laid it down upon his knee. As I took Blanche home I said to her: "And when did you appeal to me, and when did I repulse you?" "When I spoke to you about Goldy and you weren't sorry, you did not mind a bit. You only said he was a lucky goldfish." "And what in Heaven's name had that to do with you?" She looked scornfully at me as if she were not going to be entrapped into speaking again.