The next day, whilst driving with her niece, Mrs. Cathcart was seized by a sudden thought. “My dear,” she said, “let us go and see about that . Where did you say the man was to be found? Nelson Studios, King’s Road. What number?”  
“No. 10,” said Eugenia, wondering if her aunt’s sudden resolve would be productive of good or evil.
 
The carriage went to Nelson Studios; the ladies dismounted, and Mrs. Cathcart tapped at the door of No. 10, a studio which, being a sculptor’s, was of course on the ground-floor.
 
The door was opened by a handsome young man whose outside was a old blouse, and whose hands were white with half-dried clay—one of those hands, moreover, held a short pipe. Indeed, Gerald Leigh was in as unpresentable trim as when years ago he first met Miss Herbert.
 
He did not at once see the girl. She was behind Mrs. Cathcart, and that lady’s presence absorbed all his attention. Mrs. Cathcart put up her eye-glass.
 
“Is your master in?” she asked.
 
Gerald laughed. “I am my own master,” he said.
 
“This is Mr. Leigh, aunt,” said Eugenia, coming forward.
 
“Oh!” said Mrs. Cathcart, and the palpable meaning of that exclamatory monosyllable sent the blood to Eugenia’s cheek.
 
Gerald started as he heard the girl’s voice and recognized[173] her in the shadow. He stretched out his clay-covered hand, then withdrew it and laughed. Mrs. Cathcart, who saw the action, put on a look of ; then she recovered herself.
 
“Oh, I forgot,” she said to Eugenia. “Of course, you have seen Mr. Leigh before. May we come in, Mr. Leigh?”
 
He moved aside and the ladies entered the studio. He placed his two chairs at their disposal. He wondered the while what had brought Eugenia to him. He gave her a questioning glance, but her eyes avoided his. Then Mrs. Cathcart began. She in that manner which certain persons assume towards those whom they are pleased to think their inferiors.
 
“I believe, some time ago, you made a bust of my late brother-in-law, Mr. Herbert, of Coombe-Acton.”
 
Gerald bowed.
 
“I wish to have a copy of it. Can you make one?”
 
“Certainly. In marble?”
 
“In marble, of course. How much will it cost?”
 
It was a painful experience to Eugenia, to hear her future husband talked to by Mrs. Cathcart much as that lady talked to the obliging young men and women at the various emporiums which enjoyed her .
 
“Mr. Herbert was my best friend,” said Gerald. “My services are at your disposal.”
 
“You do not understand me,” said Mrs. Cathcart, coldly. “I asked you what it would cost.”
 
Gerald colored and glanced at Eugenia. He was puzzled. It could only have been through the agency of the girl he loved that this new patroness sought him.
 
 
“Mr. Leigh was my father’s friend, aunt,” said Eugenia.
 
“My dear! Mr. Leigh is not my friend. I want to know his terms for a marble bust.”
 
“Eighty pounds, madam,” said Gerald, rather shortly.
 
“Oh, much too much! Eugenia, do you not think such a price extortionate?”
 
Eugenia was silent, but her cheeks burned. Gerald’s lip quivered with anger. Only Mrs. Cathcart was calm. “I will pay you forty pounds,” she said, “but then it must be approved by a competent judge.”
 
“You have heard my terms, madam,” said Leigh .
 
“Absurd! I will even say fifty pounds. If you like to take that you may call upon me. Good-morning. Come, Eugenia!”
 
She swept out of the studio. Eugenia followed her. She looked back and saw Gerald’s face wearing an expression of actual pain. For a moment her impulse was to run back, throw her arms round his neck, and defy every one. However, she did not yield to it, but followed her aunt to the carriage.
 
“I call that young man a most common, ill-bred person,” said Mrs. Cathcart.
 
Eugenia flushed. “He is not,” she said hotly. “Your manner towards him must have been most .”
 
“My dear child!” exclaimed Mrs. Cathcart, in innocent surprise, “and I was trying to befriend the young man? He presumes on his acquaintance with your father. I always told your poor father it was a mistake becoming intimate with persons of that class.”
 
Eugenia said no more. If she had thought of so doing it was not the moment to open her heart to Mrs. Cathcart. She went to her room intending to write to Gerald; but no letter was written that day. How could she ask him to call at her aunt’s after what had occurred?
 
“I love him,” she said to herself, “but I am not brave enough to give up all for him. Oh, why did we ever meet?”
 
The next morning she received a letter from Gerald. It contained no reproach—only an that she would name a time when he might see her. Mrs. Cathcart was true to her duty. Before James Herbert was out of bed she had sent him word that a letter had come for Eugenia. He went at once to his sister. His greeting was quite friendly.
 
“Eugenia,” he said presently, “of course by now you have put all that nonsense about that sculptor-fellow out of your pretty head?”
 
“It is no nonsense.”
 
“Well, if you mean to be I must . Have you seen him since?”
 
“Aunt went to his studio. I was with her.”
 
“She ought to have known better. If she encourages you we shall quarrel. Do you correspond? Tell me the truth.”
 
She offered him Gerald’s letter. He waved it aside as a thing beneath his notice.
 
“Have you answered it?” he asked.
 
“Not yet. I am just going to.”
 
Her brother still remained calm and polite, with that contemptuous, incredulous smile playing round his lips.
 
 
“If you will make a fool of yourself, I can’t stop you. If you, with your beauty and position, choose to go and live in a garret, you must do so. Still, as your brother, I have certain responsibilities which would still be mine were your lover the highest in the land. I must make as to his character and moral worth—these fellows are generally a loose lot.”
 
“You may make what inquiries you choose.”
 
“Thank you. Now one favor—a command, the last I shall ask or give. You will not answer this letter—you will not see the man—until I have satisfied myself on these points. It is not too much to ask, Eugenia.”
 
She felt the justice of his remarks—could it be she was weak enough to be glad of a little delay and breathing space? But Gerald’s face, as last she saw it, rose before her.
 
“You must name a time,” she said.
 
“So impatient for true love and social extinction,” Herbert. “Surely you can restrain yourself until this day week.”
 
It was longer than she had meant. But her brother’s bitter settled it. “So be it,” she said, “until this day week.”
 
The promise given James Herbert dismissed the matter, but he filled up the next half-hour with the very cream of society gossip, which was as to Eugenia as it would have been to any other woman. James Herbert lived within the inner circle, and as to-day, for purposes of his own, he spoke to Eugenia as if she were one of the ; his conversation was not without charm.
 
He was clever to know when to trust. He had not the slightest fear that Eugenia would break her promise. So he cautioned Mrs. Cathcart to keep the little fool well within sight, and thus avoid danger of a chance meeting; to order the servants to refuse the sculptor admission if he ventured to call—and above all to be sure that Norgate had every opportunity of pressing his suit. After this he waited calmly, and did nothing more in the matter for six whole days.
 
Days during which Gerald Leigh and . He refused to doubt, but his heart grew heavy within him. He felt sure that Mrs. Cathcart’s visit no good. At last he could bear the no longer. He called and asked for Eugenia. She was out. He called again—the same result. He went back to his studio and tried to conquer his growing uneasiness by hard work. One morning a gentleman called and introduced himself as James Herbert.
 
Gerald received him . Herbert was ^............