I thought him? Would he not rather have--oh, have
done _anything_?--Yet this may be only a temptation of my lower self, a
way of giving ease to my conscience. Despair may account for his
degradation. And when I remember that a word, one word, from me, the
right moment, would have checked him on the dangerous path! When I saw
'Sanctuary,' why had I not the courage to tell him what I thought? No,
I became the accomplice of his suicide, and I, alone, am the cause of
this wretched disaster.--Before long he will be rich. Can you imagine
N. F. _rich_? I shudder at the thought."

The paper rustled in Bertha's hand; her shoulders shook; she could no
longer restrain the merry laugh. When she sat down to answer Rosamund,
a roguish smile played about her lips.

"I grieve with you"--thus she began--"over the shocking prospect of N.
F.'s becoming _rich_. Alas! I fear the thing is past praying for; I can
all but see the poor young man in a shiny silk hat and an overcoat
trimmed with the most expensive fur. His Academy picture is everywhere
produced; a large photogravure will soon be published; all day long a
crowd stands before it at Burlington House, and his name--shall we ever
again dare to speak it?--is on the lips of casual people in train and
'bus and tram. How shall I write on such a painful subject? You see
that my hand is unsteady. Don't blame yourself too much. The man
capable of becoming rich _will_ become so, whatever the noble
influences which endeavour to restrain him. I suspect--I feel all but
convinced--that N. F. could not help himself; the misfortune is that
his fatal turn for moneymaking did not show itself earlier, and so warn
you away. I don't know whether I dare send you a paragraph I have cut
from yesterday's _Echo_. Yet I will--it will serve to show you that--as
you used to write from Egypt--all this is Kismet."

The newspaper cutting showed an item of news interesting alike to the
fashionable and the artistic world. Mr. Norbert Franks, the young
painter whose Academy picture had been so much discussed, was about to
paint the portrait of Lady Rockett, recently espoused wife of Sir
Samuel Rockett, the Australian millionaire. As every one knew, Lady
Rockett had made a brilliant figure in the now closing Season, and her
image had been in all the society journals. Mr. Franks might be
congratulated on this excellent opportunity for the display of his
admirable talent as an exponent of female beauty.-- "Exponent" w