Up to her present age, Mildred Carr had never known a single touch of love:  she had not even felt particularly interested in her numerous admirers, but now this marble Galatea had by some freak of fate found a woman’s heart, awkwardly enough, without the semblance of a supplication on the part of him whom she destined to play Pygmalion.  And, when she examined herself by the light of the flame thus newly kindled, she shrank back dismayed, like one who peeps over the crater of a volcano commencing its fiery work.  She had believed her heart to be callous to all affection of this nature, it had seemed as dead as the mummied hyacinth; and now it was a living, suffering thing, and all alight with love.  She had tasted of a new wine, and it burnt her, and was bitter sweet, and yet she longed for more.  And thus, by slow and sad degrees, she learnt that her life, which had for thirty years flowed on its quiet way unshadowed by love’s wing, must henceforth own his dominion, and be a slave to his sorrows and caprices.  No wonder that she grew afraid!

But Mildred was a woman of keen insight into character, and it did not require that her powers of observation should be sharpened by the condition of her affections, to show her that, however deeply she might be in love with Arthur Heigham, he was not one little bit in love with her.  Knowing the almost irresistible strength of her own beauty and attractions, she quickly came to the conclusion—­and it was one that sent a cold chill through her—­that there must be some other woman blocking the path to his heart.  For some reason or other, Arthur had never spoken to her of Angela, either because a man very rarely volunteers information to a woman concerning his existing relationship with another of her sex, knowing that to do so would be to depreciate his value in her eyes, or from an instinctive knowledge that the subject would not be an agreeable one, or perhaps because the whole matter was too sacred to him.  But she, on her part, was determined to probe his secret to the bottom.  So one sleepy afternoon, when they were sitting on the museum verandah, about six weeks after the date of their arrival in the island, she took her opportunity.

Mildred was sitting, or rather half lying, in a cane-work chair, gazing out over the peaceful sea, and Arthur, looking at her, thought what a lovely woman she was, and wondered what it was that had made her face and eyes so much softer and more attractive of late.  Miss Terry was also there, complaining of the heat, but presently she moved off after an imaginary beetle, and they were alone.

“Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Heigham,” Mildred said, presently, “I was going to ask you a question, if only I can remember what it is.”

“Try to remember what it is about.  ’Shoes, sealing-wax, cabbages, or kings.’  Does it come under any of those heads?”

“Ah, I remember now.  If you had added ‘queens,’ you would not have been far out.  What I wanted to ask you——­” and she turned her large, brown eyes full upon him, and yawned slightly.  “Dear me, Agatha is right; it is hot!”