now save as actively in
search of her. All the first impulsion towards holiday and repose that
had swept him headlong across the Channel had mysteriously died away, to
give place to this haunting, this imperious, idea of a mission. He must
push on with it at once!

He chose his route largely haphazard, yet zigzagging through her
favourite cities. His heart thrilled with hope as he was borne again
through the outskirts, and Paris lay behind him. In this dash through
Europe, the happy chance might perhaps befall him! He knew the quest in
that way was wholly irrational, but it had its charm. He might pass
within a stone's throw of her a score of times, and yet remain
unconscious of the proximity. A billion to one at least against him!

Yet he pursued his journey feverishly; passing through Belgium swiftly,
thence to Dresden by stages, then hurrying down to Munich, next on to
Vienna, and passing further southwards; vibrating off the beaten path at
every turn; staying here a day, there a night, rarely anywhere longer;
guided by no principle, but darting about at random, often doubling back
on his track, and yielding to every fantastic impulse that rose in him.

At Belgrade, where he found himself some four weeks after leaving Paris
(though the days, packed with changing scenes and impressions, had
seemed to run into months), he had an inspiration, and abruptly took the
train straight back again. Might not Lady Betty gravitate once more to
the portrait, before the Salon closed its doors for the season? Even
though it was to be her own possession in the end, she might well desire
to pay it that tribute. Had it not given them their brief companionship
in avowed affection? He would haunt the Salon daily; he would wait and
watch for her. He journeyed all day, all night, and all the next day,
impelled by the same fever of impatience, which now oppressed him
tenfold. He stepped out of the train in the evening amid the bustle and
lights of the terminus. He was in Paris again! He breathed with relief
as at a goal accomplished.

XXX

One blue summer morning, Wyndham, for the twentieth time at least,
entered the Salon through his customary turnstile, and stood in the
great central court, under the crystal roof, amid the gleaming display
of statuary. There was already a goodly number of people about; not yet
a crowd, but enough for the costumes and hats of the fair sex to colour
the whole place like a flower-garden. He move