ame into a little money over
a year ago, and she and old Mrs. Waterlow have taken a house in Chelsea,
and are coming back to Chislebridge only for two or three months in
every year. They are very fond of Chislebridge. So I haven't an idea of
what her drawing-room is like now."

"Perhaps it's like yours," Owen suggested. "The one I saw was rather
like yours, I remember."

Gwendolen opened kind and repudiating eyes.

"Do you think so, Owen? Like mine? Oh, only in one or two superficial
little things. She hadn't a Chinese screen or a lacquer cabinet or a
piece of Chinese painting to bless herself with, poor little Cicely! No,
indeed, Owen; I don't think it would be at all fair to say that Cicely
copied me. These things are in the air."

* * * * *

Before he left Chislebridge he asked Gwendolen for Mrs. Waterlow's
London address, and observed that she did not flinch in giving it to
him. He inferred from this that Mrs. Waterlow's black satin suite had
not left Chislebridge and that Gwendolen knew that she had nothing to
fear from a London visit. Would she indeed fear anything from any visit?
Her placid self-deception was so profound that it would be difficult to
draw a line fairly between skilful fraud and instinctive
self-protection. Gwendolen, without doubt, conceived herself completely
protected. She would never suspect him of suspecting her.

He felt, when he got back to London, a certain reluctance in going to
see Mrs. Waterlow. It was not only that he shrank from reading in old
Mrs. Waterlow's malicious eyes the recognition of his discovery; in
regard to young Mrs. Waterlow there was another shrinking that was
almost one of shyness. She had been wronged, grossly wronged, by some
one to whom he must show the semblance of loyalty, and the consciousness
of her wrongs affected him deeply. A fortnight passed before he made his
way one afternoon to Chelsea, a fortnight in which the main
consciousness that filled his sense of renewal was that of his merciful
escape. Mrs. Waterlow's house was in St. Leonard's Terrace, one of the
narrow, old houses that face the expanse of the Royal Hospital Gardens.
The spring sun, as he limped along, was shining upon their
facades--dull, old brick and dim, white paint-like slabs of ancient
wedding-cake with frosted edging.

After all the expense of his illness, he was very poor in these days,
and had come with difficulty in a 'bus. As he opened the gate