The dinner that evening must be counted a distinct success. Browne was the first to arrive at the rendezvous, and it was not wonderful that he should have been, considering that he had spent the whole of his day waiting for that moment. The owner of the restaurant received him personally.

“Well, Lallemand,” said Browne, with an anxiety that was almost ludicrous, “how are your preparations? Is everything ready?”

“Certainly, monsieur,” Lallemand replied, spreading his hands apart. “Everything is ready; Felix himself has done ze cooking, I have chosen ze wine, and your own gardener has arranged ze flowers. You have ze best men-servants in London to wait upon you. I have procured you four kinds of fruit that has only a few times been seen in England before; and now I give you ze word of Lallemand zat you will have ze most perfect little dinner in ze city of London.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Browne. “I am exceedingly obliged to you for the trouble you have taken in the matter.”

“I beg you will not mention ze trouble, monsieur,” replied Lallemand politely. “It is ze pleasure of my life to serve you.”

He had scarcely spoken before a cab drew up before the door, and Jimmy Foote made his appearance, clad in immaculate evening-dress. He greeted Browne with a somewhat sheepish air, as if he were ashamed of himself for something, and did not quite know what that something was.

“Well, old man,” he said. “Here I am, you see; up to time, I hope. How d’ye do, Lallemand?”

“I hope you are most well, Monsieur Foote,” replied Lallemand, with one of his inimitable bows.

“I am better than I shall be after your dinner,” Foote replied, with a smile. “Human nature is weak. I am tempted, and I know that I shall fall.”

Browne all this time was showing signs of impatience. He glanced repeatedly at his watch, and as seven o’clock drew near he imagined that every vehicle pulling up outside must contain the two ladies for whom he was waiting so eagerly. When at last they did arrive he hastened to the door to greet them. Madame Bernstein was the first to alight, and Katherine Petrovitch followed her a moment later. She gave her hand to Browne, and as he took it such a thrill went through him that it was wonderful the young man did not collapse upon the pavement.

Having conducted them to the room in which they were to take off their wraps, Browne went in search of Foote, whom he found in the dining-room.

“Pull yourself together, old chap,” said Jimmy as he glanced at him; “you are all on the jump. What on earth is the matter with you? Take my advice and try a pick-me-up.”

“I wouldn’t touch a drop for worlds,” said Browne, with righteous indignation. “I wonder you can suggest such a thing.”

Instead, he went to the table and moved a flower-vase which was an eighth of an inch from the centrepiece farther than its companion on the other side.

“This is as bad a case as I ever remember,” said Foote to himself; and at the same moment Katherine Petrovitch and Madame Bernstein entered the room. A somewhat painful surprise was in store for Browne. There could be no doubt about one thing: Madame Bernstein had dressed herself with due regard to the importance of the occasion. Her gown was of bright ruby velvet; her arms were entirely bare; and while her bodice was supported by the most slender of shoulder-straps, it was cut considerably lower than most people would have considered compatible with either her age or her somewhat portly appearance. Round her neck and studded in her hair were many diamonds, all so palpably false as to create no suspicion of the means by which she had obtained them. Her companion’s costume, on the other hand, was simplicity itself. She was attired in black, unrelieved by any touch of colour; a plain band of velvet encircled her throat, and Browne confessed to himself afterwards that he had never in his life seen anything more becoming. He presented Foote to the ladies with due ceremony; and when their places had been allotted them they sat down to dinner, madame on Browne’s right, Katherine on his left.

Despite the knowledge that the dinner had been prepared by one of the most admirable chefs in the world, and the fact that Lallemand himself had given his assurance that everything was satisfactory, Browne was nevertheless exercised in his mind lest anything should go wrong. He might have spared himself the anxiety, however, for the dinner was perfection itself. One other thing troubled him, and that was that the person he was most anxious to please scarcely touched anything. But if she did not, Madame Bernstein made ample amends for her. She allowed no dish to pass her untasted; the connoisseur was apparent in her appreciation of the wines, while her praise of the cooking was volubility itself. From what he had seen of her, Browne had been prepared to dislike her intensely; to his surprise, however, he discovered that she improved on acquaintance. Seemingly, she had been everywhere and had seen everything; in her youth she had known Garibaldi personally, had met Kossuth, and been brought into contact with many other European liberators. For this reason alone her conversation could scarcely have failed to prove interesting. Katherine, on the other hand, was strangely quiet.

The dinner at an end, the ladies withdrew to put on their cloaks; and while they were absent Browne ascertained that his carriage was at the door. In it they drove to Covent Garden. The box was on the prompt side of the house, and was the best that influence and money could secure. Madame Bernstein and Katherine Petrovitch took their places in the front, while Browne managed to manoeuvre his chair into such a position that he could speak to Katherine without the others overhearing what he said.

“You are fond of music, are you not?” he inquired as the orchestra took their places. He felt as he said it that he need not have asked; with such a face she could scarcely fail to be.

“I am more than fond of it,” she answered, playing with the handle of her fan. “Music and painting are my two greatest pleasures.”

She uttered a little sigh, which seemed to suggest to Browne that she had not very much pleasure in her life. At least, that was the way in which he interpreted it.

Then the curtain went up, and Browne was forced to be silent. I think, if you were to ask him now which was the happiest evening of his life, he would answer, “That on which I saw Lohengrin with Katherine Petrovitch.” If the way in which the time slipped by could be taken as any criterion, it must certainly have been so, for the evening seemed scarcely to have begun ere it was over and the National Anthem was being played. When the curtain descended the two young men escorted the ladies to the entrance hall, where they waited while the carriage was being called. It was at this juncture that Jimmy proved of use. Feeling certain Browne would be anxious to have a few minutes alone with Katherine, he managed, with great diplomacy, to draw Madame Bernstein on one side, on the pretence of telling her an amusing story concerning a certain Continental military attaché with whom they were both acquainted.

“How long do you think it will be before I may venture to see you again?” Browne asked the girl when they were alone together.

“I cannot say,” she replied, with an attempt at a smile. “I do not know what Madame Bernstein’s arrangements are.”

“But surely Madame Bernstein does not control all your actions?” he asked, I fear a little angrily; for he did not like to think she was so dependent on the elder woman.

“No, she does not altogether control them, of course,” Katherine replied; “but I always have so much to do for her that I do not feel justified in making any arrangements without first consulting her.”

“But you must surely have some leisure,” he continued. “Perhaps you shop in the High Street, or walk in the Park or Kensington Gardens on fine mornings. Might I not chance to find you in one of those places?”

“I fear not,” she answered, shaking her head. “If it is fine I have my work to do.”

“And if it should be wet?” asked Browne, feeling his heart sink within him as he realised that she was purposely placing obstacles in the way of their meeting. “Surely you cannot paint when the days are as gloomy as they have been lately.”

“No,” she answered; “that is impossible. But it gives me no more leisure than before; for in that case I have letters to write for Madame Bernstein, and she has an enormous amount of correspondence.”

Though Browne wondered what that correspondence could be, he said nothing to her on the subject, nor had he any desire to thrust his presence upon the girl when he saw she was not anxious for it. It was plain to him that there was something behind it all — some reason to account for her pallor and her quietness that evening. What that reason was, however, he could not for the life of him understand.

They had arrived at this point when the carriage reached the door. Madame Bernstein and Foote accordingly approached them, and the quartette walked together towards the entrance.

“I thank you many times for your kindness to-night,” said Katherine, looking shyly up at Browne.

“Please, don’t thank me,” he replied. “It is I who should thank you. I hope you have enjoyed yourself.”

“Very much indeed,” she answered. “I could see Lohengrin a hundred times without growing in the least tired of it.”

As she said this they reached the carriage. Browne placed the ladies in it, and shook hands with them as he bade them good-night. He gave the footman his instructions, and presently the carriage rolled away, leaving the two young men standing on the pavement, looking after it. It was a beautiful starlight night, with a touch of frost in the air.

“Are we going to take a cab, or shall we walk?” said Foote.

“Let us walk, that is if you don’t mind,” Browne replied. “I feel as if I could enjoy a ten-mile tramp to-night after the heat of that theatre.”

“I’m afraid I do not,” Foote replied. “My idea is the ‘Périgord’ for a little supper, and then to bed. Browne, old man, I have been through a good deal for you to-night. I like the young lady very much, but Madame Bernstein is — well, she is Madame Bernstein. I can say no more.”

“Never mind, old chap,” said Browne, patting his companion on the shoulder. “You have the satisfaction of knowing that your martyrdom is appreciated; the time may come when you will want me to do the same thing for you. One good turn deserves another, you know.”

“When I want a turn of that description done for me, I will be sure to let you know,” Foote continued; “but if I have any sort of luck, it will be many years before I come to you with such a request. When I remember that, but for my folly in showing you that picture in Waterloo Place, we should by this time be on the other side of the Eddystone, en route for the Mediterranean and sunshine, I feel as if I could sit down and weep. However, it is kismet, I suppose?”

Browne offered no reply.

“Are you coming in?” said Foote as they reached the doorstep of the Périgord Club.

“No, thank you, old man,” said Browne. “I think, if you will excuse me, I will get home.”

“Good-night, then,” said Foote; “I shall probably see you in the morning.”

Having bidden him good-night, Browne proceeded on his way.

Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he betook himself to Kensington Gardens, where he wandered about for upwards of an hour, but saw no sign of the girl he hoped to meet. Leaving the Gardens, he made his way to the High Street, with an equally futile result. Regardless of the time he was wasting, and of everything else, he passed on in the direction of Addison Road. As disappointment still pursued him, he made up his mind to attempt a forlorn hope. Turning into the Melbury Road, he made for German Park Road, and reaching the studio, rang the bell. When the door was opened he found himself confronted with an elderly person, wearing a sack for an apron, and holding a bar of yellow soap in her hand.

“I have called to see Miss Petrovitch,” he said.

“She is not at home, sir,” the woman replied. “She has not been here this morning. Can I give her any message?”

“I am afraid not,” Browne replied. “I wanted to see her personally; but you might tell her that Mr. Browne called.”

“Mr. Browne,” she repeated. “Very good, sir. You may be sure I will tell her.”

Browne thanked her, and, to make assurance doubly sure, slipped five shillings into her hand. Then, passing out of the garden, he made his way back to the High Street. He had not proceeded more than a hundred yards down that interesting thoroughfare, however, before he saw no less a person than Katherine herself approaching him.

They were scarcely a dozen paces apart when she recognised him.

“Good-morning, Miss Petrovitch,” he said, raising his hat and speaking a little nervously. “I have just called at your studio in the hope that I might see you. The woman told me that she did not know when you would return. I thought I might possibly meet you here.”

It was a poor enough excuse, but the only one he could think of at the moment.

“You wanted to see me?” she said in a tone of surprise.

“Are you angry with me for that?” he asked. “I did not think you would be; but if you are I will go away again. By this time you should know that I have no desire save to make you happy.”

This was the first time he had spoken so plainly. Her face paled a little.

“I did not know that you were so anxious to see me,” she said, “or I would have made a point of being at home.”

All this time they had been standing on the spot where they had first met.

“Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?” said Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.

“I shall be very pleased,” she answered promptly.

Thereupon they walked back in the direction of the studio.

At the gate they stopped. She turned and faced him, and as she did so she held out her hand; it was plain that she had arrived at a decision on some important point.

“Good-bye, Mr. Browne,” she said, and as she said it Browne noticed that her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears. He could bear it no longer.

“Miss Petrovitch,” he began, “you must forgive my rudeness; but I feel sure that you are not happy. Will you not trust me and let me help you? You know how gladly I would do so.”

“There is no way in which you can help me,” she answered, and then she bade him good-bye, and, with what Browne felt sure was a little sob, vanished into the studio. For some moments he stood waiting where he was, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her exit, and hoping she might come out again; then, realising that she did not intend doing so, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the High Street, and so to Park Lane. His afternoon was a broken and restless one; he could not rid himself of the recollection of the girl’s face, and he felt as sure as a man could well be that something was amiss. But how was he to help her? At any rate he was going to try.

The clocks in the neighbourhood were striking eleven next morning as he alighted from his hansom and approached the door of the studio. He rang the bell, but no answer rewarded him. He rang again, but with the same result.

Not being able to make any one hear, he returned to his cab and set off for the Warwick Road. Reaching the house, the number of which Katherine had given him, he ascended the steps and rang the bell. When the maid-servant answered his summons, he inquired for Miss Petrovitch.

“Miss Petrovitch?” said the girl, as if she were surprised. “She is not here, sir. She and Madame Bernstein left for Paris this morning.”