for Maurice, or Malcolm, or Mortimer. However, when he came down and saw M. Delaporte here, I heard no more about the disadvantages of sex. She was essentially a woman for companionship, cultured, brilliant, artist to her finger-tips, yet with all her beauty and fascination, holding a certain proud reserve between herself and ourselves, marking a line we dared not overstep. At the end of a month we knew little more about her than we did on that first evening. I opined that she was a widow; but no hint, however skilful, no trap, however baited, could force her into confidence or self-betrayal. We called her Mrs. Delaporte. Her name was Musette, she told me. Her mother had been a Frenchwoman; of her father she never spoke. She worked very hard, often putting me to shame, but still she would not let me see the picture, always skilfully turning the easel so that the canvas was hidden whenever Jasper or myself entered the studio. We were never permitted to do so in working hours, but when the daylight faded, and the well-known little tea-table was set out, we often dropped in for a cup of tea and a chat. It was all so pleasant, so homelike. The studio, with its draperies and its bowls of flowers, its plants, and books, and feminine trifles . . . I—I wonder how it is some women seem to lend individuality to their surroundings. . . . The studio has never looked the same since she left. . . ."
He paused, and laid down the sketch. The usual gaiety and brightness of his face was subdued and shadowed.
"A cup of tea and a chat."
"I—well, it's no good to dwell on it all now," he said abruptly. "Of course I fell madly in love with her. Who could help it? I bet any of you fellows here would have done the same. I neglected work. I could only moon and dream and follow her about, when she let me, which I am bound to say was not very often. I'm sure I used to bore Trenoweth considerably at that time, though he was very patient. And she was just the same always: calm, friendly, gracious, absorbed in her work, and to all appearances unconscious of what mischief her presence had wrought. As the third month drew near to its end I grew desperate. I thought she avoided me, she never let me into the studio now, and I must confess I had a great curiosity to see the picture. But she laughingly evaded all my hints, and would only receive me at the farmhouse. I believe Trenoweth was equally unsuccessful. At last I could stand it no longer. I spoke out and told her the whole truth. Of course," and he laughed somewhat bitterly, "it was no use. If she had been my mother or my sister she could not have been more serenely gracious, more pitiful, or more surprised. I—I had made a fool of myself as we men call it, and all to no purpose. It was maddening, but I knew it was hopeless. I had almost known it before my desperate confession. I couldn't bear to see her again. I felt I hated the place, it was so full of memories. So, suddenly, without a word to Trenoweth or herself, I packed up my traps and started off on a sketching tour through Cornwall. When I came back, the
