“If I did,” he said coldly, “I was wrong. I owe you all my apologies.” There was a moment's silence. “If I could say more, I would,” he added. But a quickly gathering anger in the girl's heart suddenly broke out. She drew herself up, flaming-cheeked, with eyes flashing through the tears that would come. “You have behaved horribly, cruelly, and I want never to see your face again.” Sylvester bowed his head. A swift rustle of skirts, a sound of the door, and she was gone. He raised his head and drew rather a choking breath. He knew that Ella had just cause for reproach. But what could be done? The new budding love had been killed outright. He regarded her with aversion, with something akin even to horror. And his heart was as cold as a stone. CHAPTER VI--THE WALDEN ART COLONY It was a Sunday in June, a year after Sylvester had come to London, and the great stretch of the Park, past Stanhope Gate, north of Achilles' statue, was thronged. The warm breath of the afternoon air scarcely stirred the leaves that chequered with shade and sunshine the mass of cool colour below. Above shone the vivid green of the foliage and the sea-blue of the sky; but beneath the branches the air was tempered by the reflection of the whites, the pale greys, the delicate blues and lavenders, and the soft pinks of dresses and parasols. It was the ordinary crowd that sat there, very fashionable, somewhat vulgar below the surface, but delicately picturesque, like human flower-beds in a sweet but formal garden. And on the walks beside and around and between passed the endless procession of loungers. The hum of talk, the subdued patter of footsteps, and the frou-frou of soft drapery hung upon the air.