While Foote was cogitating in this way, Browne’s cab was rolling along westward. He passed Apsley House and the Park, and dodged his way in and out of the traffic through Kensington Gore and the High Street. By the time they reached the turning into the Melbury Road he was in the highest state of good humour, not only with himself but the world in general.

When, however, they had passed the cab-stand, and had turned into the narrow street which was his destination, all his confidence vanished, and he became as nervous as a weak-minded school-girl. At last the cabman stopped and addressed his fare.

“The fog’s so precious thick hereabouts, sir,” he said, “that I’m blest if I can see the houses, much less the numbers. Forty-three may be here, or it may be down at the other end. If you like I’ll get down and look.”

“You needn’t do that,” said Browne. “I’ll find it for myself.”

It may have been his nervousness that induced him to do such a thing — on that point I cannot speak with authority — but it is quite certain that when he did get down he handed the driver half-a-sovereign. With the characteristic honesty of the London cabman, the man informed him of the fact, at the same time remarking that he could not give him change.

“Never mind the change,” said Browne; adding, with fine cynicism, “Put it into the first charity-box you come across.”

The man laughed, and with a hearty “Thank ye, sir; good-night,” turned his horse and disappeared.

“Now for No. 43,” said Browne.

But though he appeared to be so confident of finding it, it soon transpired that the house was more difficult to discover than he imagined. He wandered up one pavement and down the other in search of it. When he did come across it, it proved to be a picturesque little building standing back from the street, and boasted a small garden in front. The door was placed at the side. He approached it and rang the bell. A moment later he found himself standing face to face with the girl he had rescued on the Gieranger Fjord seven months before. It may possibly have been due to the fact that when she had last seen him he had been dressed after the fashion of the average well-to-do tourist, and that now he wore a top-hat and a great coat; it is quite certain, however, that for the moment she did not recognise him.

“I am afraid you do not know me,” said Browne, with a humility that was by no means usual with him. But before he had finished speaking she had uttered a little exclamation of astonishment, and, as the young man afterwards flattered himself, of pleasure.

“Mr. Browne!” she cried. “I beg your pardon, indeed, for not recognising you. You must think me very rude; but I had no idea of seeing you here.”

“I only learnt your address an hour ago,” the young man replied. “I could not resist the opportunity of calling on you.”

“But I am so unknown in London,” she answered. “How could you possibly have heard of me! I thought myself so insignificant that my presence in this great city would not be known to any one.”

“You are too modest,” said Browne, with a solemnity that would not have discredited a State secret. Then he made haste to add, “I cannot tell you how often I have thought of that terrible afternoon.”

“As you may suppose, I have never forgotten it,” she answered. “It is scarcely likely I should.”

There was a little pause; then she added, “But I don’t know why I should keep you standing out here like this. Will you not come in?”

Browne was only too glad to do so. He accordingly followed her into the large and luxuriously furnished studio.

“Won’t you sit down?” she said, pointing to a chair by the fire. “It is so cold and foggy outside that perhaps you would like a cup of tea.”

Tea was a beverage in which Browne never indulged, and yet, on this occasion, so little was he responsible for his actions that he acquiesced without a second thought.

“How do you prefer it?” she asked. “Will you have it made in the English or the Russian way? Here is a teapot, and here a samovar; here is milk, and here a slice of lemon. Which do you prefer?”

Scarcely knowing which he chose, Browne answered that he would take it à la Russe. She thereupon set to work, and the young man, as he watched her bending over the table, thought he had never in his life before seen so beautiful and so desirable a woman. And yet, had a female critic been present, it is quite possible — nay, it is almost probable that more than one hole might have been picked in her appearance. Her skirt — in order to show my knowledge of the technicalities of woman’s attire — was of plain merino, and she also wore a painting blouse that, like Joseph’s coat, was of many colours. To go further, a detractor would probably have observed that her hair might have been better arranged. Browne, however, thought her perfection in every respect, and drank his tea in a whirl of enchantment. He found an inexplicable fascination in the mere swish of her skirts as she moved about the room, and a pleasure that he had never known before in the movement of her slender hands above the tray. And when, their tea finished, she brought him a case of cigarettes, and bade him smoke if he cared to, it might very well have been said that that studio contained the happiest man in England. Outside, they could hear the steady patter of the rain, and the rattle of traffic reached them from the High Street; but inside there was a silence of a Norwegian fjord, and the memory of one hour that never could be effaced from their recollections as long as they both should live. Under the influence of the tea, and with the assistance of the cigarette, which she insisted he should smoke, Browne gradually recovered his presence of mind. One thing, however, puzzled him. He remembered what the shopman had told him, and for this reason he could not understand how she came to be the possessor of so comfortable a studio. This, however, was soon explained. The girl informed him that after his departure from Merok (though I feel sure she was not aware that he was the owner of the magnificent vessel she had seen in the harbour) she had been unable to move for upwards of a week. After that she and her companion, Madame Bernstein, had left for Christiania, travelling thence to Copenhagen, and afterwards to Berlin. In the latter city she had met an English woman, also an artist. They had struck up a friendship, with the result that the lady in question, having made up her mind to winter in Venice, had offered her the free use of her London studio for that time, if she cared to cross the Channel and take possession of it.

“Accordingly, in the daytime, I paint here,” said the girl; “but Madame Bernstein and I have our lodgings in the Warwick Road. I hope you did not think this was my studio; I should not like to sail under false colours.”

Browne felt that he would have liked to give her the finest studio that ever artist had used a brush and pencil in. He was wise enough, however, not to say so. He changed the conversation, therefore, by informing her that he had wintered in Petersburg, remarking at the same time that he had hoped to have had the pleasure of meeting her there.

“You will never meet me in Petersburg,” she answered, her face changing colour as she spoke. “You do not know, perhaps, why I say this. But I assure you, you will never meet me or mine within the Czar’s dominions.”

Browne would have given all he possessed in the world not to have given utterance to that foolish speech. He apologised immediately, and with a sincerity that made her at once take pity on him.

“Please do not feel so sorry for what you said,” she replied. “It was impossible for you to know that you had transgressed. The truth is, my family are supposed to be very dangerous persons. I do not think, with one exception, we are more so than our neighbours; but, as the law now stands, we are prohibited. Whether it will ever be different I cannot say. That is enough, however, about myself. Let us talk of something else.”

She had seated herself in a low chair opposite him, with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on her hand. Browne glanced at her, and remembered that he had once carried her in his arms for upwards of a mile. At this thought such a thrill went through him that his teacup, which he had placed on a table beside him, trembled in its saucer. Unable to trust himself any further in that direction, he talked of London, of the weather, of anything that occurred to him; curiously enough, however, he did not mention his proposed departure for the Mediterranean on the morrow. In his heart he had an uneasy feeling that he had no right to be where he was. But when he thought of the foggy street outside, and realised how comfortable this room was, with its easy chairs, its polished floor, on which the firelight danced and played, to say nothing of the girl seated opposite him, he could not summon up sufficient courage to say good-bye.

“How strange it seems,” she said at last —“does it not? — that you and I should be sitting here like this! I had no idea, when we bade each other good-bye in Norway, that we should ever meet again.”

“I felt certain of it,” Browne replied, but he failed to add why he was so sure. “Is it settled how long you remain in England?”

“I do not think so,” she answered. “We may be here some weeks; we may be only a few days. It all depends upon Madame Bernstein.”

“Upon Madame Bernstein?” he said, with some surprise.

“Yes,” she answered; “she makes our arrangements. You have no idea how busy she is.”

Browne certainly had no idea upon that point, and up to that moment he was not sure that he was at all interested; now, however, since it appeared that madame controlled the girl’s movements, she became a matter of overwhelming importance to him.

For more than an hour they continued to chat; then Browne rose to bid her good-bye.

“Would you think me intrusive if I were to call upon you again?” he asked as he took her hand.

“Do so by all means, if you like,” she answered, with charming frankness. “I shall be very glad to see you.”

Then an idea occurred to him — an idea so magnificent, so delightful, that it almost took his breath away.

“Would you think me impertinent if I inquired how you and Madame Bernstein amuse yourselves in the evenings? Have you been to any theatres or to the opera?”

The girl shook her head. “I have never been inside a theatre in London,” she replied.

“Then perhaps I might be able to persuade you to let me take you to one,” he answered. “I might write to Madame Bernstein and arrange an evening. Would she care about it, do you think?”

“I am sure she would,” she answered. “And I know that I should enjoy it immensely. It is very kind of you to ask us.”

“It is very kind of you to promise to come,” he said gratefully. “Then I will arrange it for tomorrow night if possible. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” she answered, and held out her little hand to him for the second time.

When the front door had closed behind him and he was fairly out in the foggy street once more, Browne set off along the pavement on his return journey, swinging his umbrella and whistling like a schoolboy. To a crusty old bachelor his state of mind would have appeared inexplicable. There was no sort of doubt about it, however, that he was happy; he walked as if he were treading on air. It was a good suggestion, that one about the theatre, he said to himself, and he would take care that they enjoyed themselves. He would endeavour to obtain the best box at the opera; they were playing Lohengrin at the time, he remembered. He would send one of his own carriages to meet them, and it should take them home again. Then a still more brilliant idea occurred to him. Why should he not arrange a nice little dinner at some restaurant first? Not one of your flash dining-places but a quiet, comfortable little place — Lallemand’s, for instance, where the cooking is irreproachable, the wine and waiting faultless, and the company who frequent it beyond suspicion. And yet another notion, and as it occurred to him he laughed aloud in the public street.

“There will be three of us,” he said, “and the chaperon will need an escort. By Jove! Jimmy called me mad, did he? Well, I’ll be revenged on him. He shall sit beside Madame Bernstein.”