When we had supped together she rose from the table, and courtesied with an old maid’s awkwardness. ‘You play hoodman-blind when I am by,’ she said. ‘Do you not see my gown? From Firenze you wrote that purple becomes pale faces best.’ But one at table had worn damassin of pale green, woven with gold and silver arabesks--Lady Lucy, a debonair maid, rosy-lipped and eyed like Venus--and I had sight for no other. Mistress drew me to the bay, and pointed to the clearing beyond the pines where seven squares of light fell on the frosty grass. ‘In your honour, O painter mine, a fire has burned there all week, and now five hundred candles are lighted! When we went before ’twas as downtrodden children. To-night let us sit and watch and listen to the bells.’ She laid her hand on my arm, and drawing over her shoulders the rich furs I had brought as a spousal gift, passed with me from the house. When we reached the temple steps, she ran forward and flung the valves open, so that, even ere we entered, we were bathed in the glow. Inside much reparation had been done: the walls shone in white and gold, and the ceiling-fresco of ‘Aurora pursuing Night’ was newly cleaned and restored. The chamber was warm and sweet with burning logs. We closed the door and sat on the pigskin stools by the fire, the length of the hearth lying betwixt. Drifting against the glass came the noise of Edale Bells. The lads were drunk as ever, lashing out the old tempestuous jangle. ‘We are crowned,’ she said. ‘We have ever fought side by side, and now we are victors.’ I looked at her, and saw that the frost had pinched her face and reddened her eyes. Then I gazed at Aurora, juicy and fresh. On the hearth lay a withered leaf that had tapped in after us: on the table a great yellow rose. And I was moved by these things to speak the truth. ‘Anne, let it be all over between us. We have grown apart; life together would be miserable.... I have my art, and you would bind me to earth. From this night we will be cordial friends; lovers we have never been.... I cannot love you.’ After a while she turned her eyes from mine and bowed her head. ‘Better so,’ she murmured. ‘I am not worthy.’ For an hour she sat in silence, flushing and twining her hands.... CRYSTALLA’S LETTER TO THE _Spectator_. _Jan. 19, 1712._ _Mr._ Spectator, As I have dwelt in these wilds since my birth, and, though an Earl’s daughter, have never been permitted to show myself in London, a description of my face and figure must needs give you pleasure. ’Tis not my own, but that of Pictor, read to me from this Journal.