Standing under the arch, with one hand holding back the lace drapery, the other hanging nerveless at her side, she looked as weird as any of her ideal creations; and, in the greenish seashine breaking through the dense foliage of the trees about the house, her wan face, snowy muslin dress, and floating white ribbons, seemed unsubstantial as the figures on the wall. To-day there was no spot of color in face or dress, save the azure gleam of the large, brilliant ring, on her uplifted hand; and, as Dr. Grey scrutinized her appearance, he found it difficult to realize that blood pulsed in that marble flesh, and warm breath fluttered in that firm, frigid mouth. Glancing around the rooms, he said,-- "Solitude is indeed a misnomer for a home peopled with such creations as adorn these walls." "No. Have you forgotten the definition of Epictetus? '_To be friendless is solitude._'" "I hope, madam, that you may never find yourself in that unfortunate category, and certainly there are--" "Sir, I know what Michael Angelo felt when he wrote from Rome, 'I have no friends; I need none.'" She interrupted him with an indescribably haughty gesture, and an anomalous spasm of the lips that belonged to no known class of smiles. "On the contrary, Mrs. Gerome, the hunger for true friends has rendered you morose and cynical." He did not shrink from the wide eyes that flashed like blue steel in moonshine; and as his own, calm, steady, and magnetic, dwelt gravely on her face, he fancied she winced, slightly. "No, sir. When I hunt or recognize friends, I shall borrow Diogenes' lantern. Good morning, Dr. Grey." "Pardon me if I detain you for a moment to inquire who taught you to paint." "The absolute necessity of self-forgetfulness." "But you surely had some tuition in the art?" "Yes; I had the usual boarding-school privilege of a master for perspective, and pastel. Dr. Grey, have you been to Europe?" "Yes, madam; on several occasions." "You visited Dresden?" "I did." "Step forward a little,--there. Now, sir, do you know that painting hanging over my _escritoire_?" "It is Ruysdael's 'Churchyard,' and, from this distance, seems a remarkably fine copy of that sombre, desolate, ghoul-haunted picture." "Thank you. That is the only piece of work of which I feel really proud. Some day, when the light is pure and strong, come in and examine it. Now there is a greenish tinge over all things in the room thrown by sea-shimmer through the clustering leaves. Ah, what a long, low, presageful moan that was, which broke from foaming lips, on yonder strand!" "Good morning, Mrs. Gerome. The inspection of your pictures has yielded me so much pleasure that I must tender you my very sincere thanks for your courtesy."