It was early in May. The Academy had been open about a week, long enough for the newspaper critics to tell the public what it ought to admire. Strange to say, this year the critics were unanimous in their highest praises on a piece of statuary, and a great future for the was predicted.  
No. 1460 in the catalogue appealed to no one by cheap sentiment or treatment. It was but the lightly-draped figure of a beautiful girl; one in the first flush of womanhood. She was in the act of stepping hastily forward. Her arms were extended as if to welcome, perhaps embrace, some one who was coming towards her. Her face bore a smile of eager delight. The grace, the , the life of the figure arrested each passer by. The fall of the drapery, the position of each well-rounded limb, conveyed the idea of rapid motion. It was indeed hard to believe that she was to remain forever in one attitude. The stock remark of the spectators was that in a minute they expected to see her at the other side of the room.
 
This bore no distinguishing title, but those persons who turned to their catalogues found, under the number and the artist’s name, a few words of poetry:
 
“Her hands outstretched
To greet the new love; whilst her feet
Tread, scornful, on the old love’s gifts.”
After reading this one turned, of course, to her feet, and found that one of them was treading on flowers—roses and large star-shaped blossoms.
 
Several people, whilst admiring the statue, fancied they had somewhere seen the original of that beautiful face; but, save the sculptor, only one, James Herbert, knew the truth. He cursed Leigh’s impertinence, but was too wise to take any notice of it. Yet he to keep Eugenia from the Academy, if possible.
 
She was in town, and in a week’s time was to be married to Sir Ralph. Two months after Mrs. Cathcart had taken her niece abroad, the baronet joined them, and renewed his proposals; this time with success. The girl that the marriage should not take place until the spring. The truth is she wanted some months’ delay in order to get rid of the memories of Gerald Leigh, and by the time she returned to England flattered herself she had successfully completed the operation.
 
She had in the last few days heard some talk about the statue, but had kept her eyes from the art criticisms, fearing to see Gerald’s name. Nevertheless, she wished to visit the Academy, and was surprised when James Herbert, now itself, refused to take her there.
 
“You mustn’t go this year,” he said; “that fellow’s statute is creating quite a furore.”
 
“Well, what of that!” asked Eugenia, coldly.
 
“He has had bad taste enough to represent you. The likeness is unmistakable. It is a thing—a girl deserting her old love, or some such nonsense. Still, you’d better not go.”
 
Eugenia said no more, but all day long she was[185] thinking of her brother’s words, and to see what Gerald had . That evening she dined out. At the table were several persons who worshipped art, and Eugenia’s cheek burned as she heard the praise on the new sculptor and the great future for him. Had she, after all, been wrong? Would it not have been better to have followed the of her heart? Had she not been weak and mercenary? No matter; it was too late now to . Poor Gerald! She must see this wonderful image of herself.
 
Early next morning she went alone to Burlington House. Unlike others, she knew the meaning of the statue, knew the mute reproach it conveyed, knew why the marble foot trod down those particular flowers. She had never told him the fate of his boyish gift; but Gerald had often and often recalled his first meeting with her. Eugenia’s heart as she remembered his brave words and confidence in himself—how sure he felt of success. He had, indeed, succeeded, but the first great work from his hands was a of his love for a faithless woman—herself.
 
Two gentlemen were at her side. They were talking of the work and the sculptor. One of them she knew. He was a lord, famous for his love of art and encouragement of rising artists.
 
“I tried to buy it,” he said, “but found it was not for sale.”
 
“Commercially speaking,” said his companion, “it is as well you cannot buy it.”
 
“Why? The man must go to the top of his profession.”
 
“I think not. Indeed, my belief is he will do little more. I have inquired about him. He does not live the life a genius must live in these days if he wants to succeed.”
 
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Lord ——, moving away.
 
Miss Herbert left the Academy with an echo of Gerald’s statement that life or death hung upon her love sounding in her ears. The conversation she had overheard her greatly. The thought that her treachery had ruined a life full of promise would not be dismissed. She spent a most day, and its was not diminished by the truth, which she could no longer from herself, that she still loved Gerald. She loved him more than ever. Too late! too late! And Eugenia Herbert wept, as many others have wept, that the past could not be .
 
Sir Ralph Norgate and James Herbert dined that evening at Mrs. Cathcart’s. Their society was little comfort to Eugenia. She felt now that she hated her lover—hated his polite, hollow society ways and expressions—hated that blasé look which so often settled on his face. She had never cared for him. Their love-making had been of a kind—not, be it said, by Sir Ralph’s wish. He was proud of, and perhaps really fond of, the beautiful girl he had bought; so it was scarcely fair that Eugenia should compare his polite wooing with that of the impassioned boy’s, which recked no obstacles—heeded no consequences.
 
Her bitter thoughts made it impossible for her to sit out the dinner. Very soon she pleaded headache and went to her own room to resume her self-revilings. She made no further attempt to Gerald from[187] her thoughts. She lived again every moment she had spent in his company—heard again every word of wild love—felt his hand close on hers—his lips press her own—and as the words “Life or death,” seemed echoing through her ears. If she could but the past!
 
Why not! The thought rushed through her. What hindered her save the false gods to whom she had ? She was still legally free. Gerald was in the same town. Why should she her friends? Why trouble as to what people would think or say? By one bold step she could right everything. If to-morrow—nay, this very hour—she went to Gerald and bade him take her and hold her against all, she knew he would do so. He would forgive. To him her action would not seem bold or unmaidenly. In his eyes she would rank as high as ever; and what mattered the rest? To-morrow they might be miles away, and the of being Gerald’s wife might well for what people would say about her conduct. She herself could forget all, save that she was now bound forever to the man she loved!
 
She would do it. With she threw off her rich dress and wrapped herself in a plain cloak. She put on the quietest hat she could find, stole down stairs, and was out of the house before second thoughts had time to bring . Her heart beat wildly. She hailed a cab and was driven to Nelson Studios. On the way she remembered it was an unlikely hour to find an artist in his studio, but, nevertheless, now she had set out, resolved to complete her journey.
 
She walked quickly to Gerald’s door. She knocked[188] softly, but met with no response. She dared not wait longer outside. The pictured consequences of her rash act were assuming tremendous proportions in her brain. Another minute’s delay and she must leave the spot never to return. She turned the handle of the door and entered the room.
 
Now, Miss Herbert’s half-formed plan of action when she found herself face to face with her ill-treated lover, had been something like this—she would walk up to him and simply say, “Gerald, I am come.” The rest must be left to him, but she believed, in spite of her weakness and treachery, he would freely forgive her all.
 
Gerald was not in the studio. The gas was half-turned down, and the clay casts on the wall looked grim and . But, if Gerald was not in the room it was still inhabited. On a low couch—a couch covered by a rich Oriental rug—lay a woman, fast asleep.
 
She crept across the room and gazed on the . Even by the dim gas-light she knew that she gazed on beauty before which her own must pale. The woman might have been some five years older than herself, and those wonderful charms were at their zenith. The rich, clear, warm color on the cheek, the long black , the arched and perfect , told of Southern lands. The full, figure, the shapely, rounded arms, the red lips, the soft creamy neck—before these the heart of man would run as wax before a fire. Eugenia, seeking her lover, found this woman in her stead.
 
A bitter, scornful smile played on Miss Herbert’s lips as she gazed at the sleeper. Somehow that oval,[189] sunny face seemed familiar to her. Well might it be. In London, Paris, everywhere, she had seen it in the shop windows. There were few people in France or England who had not heard the name of Mlle. Carlotta, singer, dancer, darling of opera-bouffe, whose adventures and amours were notorious, who had ruined more men than she could count on the fingers of her fair hands.
 
Eugenia recognized her, and her smile of scorn deepened. The sight of a half-emptied bottle close to the sleeper, a half-smoked cigarette lying on the floor just as it had fallen from her fingers, added nothing to the contempt Miss Herbert’s smile expressed. her skirts together to avoid any chance of contamination by touch, she was preparing to leave the studio as noiselessly as she had entered it, when suddenly the sleeper awoke.
 
Awoke without any warning. Simply opened her splendid dark eyes, stared for half a second, then, with wonderful lightness and , sprang to her feet.
 
“Que faites vous la? Why are you here?” she cried.
 
Without a word Eugenia moved towards the door. Mlle. Carlotta was before her. She turned the key and placed her back against the door.
 
“Doucement! doucement! ma ,” she said. “Permit me to know who honors me with a visit?”
 
“I wished to see Mr. Leigh. I suppose he is out. Be good enough to let me pass.”
 
“Are you a model, then? But no; models look not as you look.”
 
“I am not a model.”
 
“Not! fi donc! You are, perhaps, one of those young misses who write Geraldo letters of love. A la bonne heure! I wish to see one of them—moi.”
 
With a smile Carlotta pocketed the key, turned up the gas, and commenced a cool of her prisoner. Eugenia blushed .
 
“Qui vous etes belle, ma chere&mdas............