Anne had been having rather a troublesome time.  She had written to Marcia and to Berkeley Hayden the night before, and the letters had been posted only that morning.  She had had to be very explicit, to make her position perfectly plain to them both, and the letters had not been easy to write.  But when she had finally written them, she had really succeeded in explaining her true self.  There was no doubt as to her entire truthfulness, or the finality of this decision of hers.  When she posted those letters, she knew that a page of her life had been turned down, the word “Finis” written at the bottom of it.  She had tossed aside a brilliant social career, a high position, a great fortune,—­and counted it all well lost.  Her one regret was to have to disappoint Marcia.  She loved Marcia.  And she hoped that Berkeley wouldn’t despise her.

She was agitated, perturbed, and yet rapturously happy.  She wished to be alone to hug that happiness to her heart, and so she had gone out under the apple-trees at the far end of the Thatcher orchard, and lay there all her long length in the good green grass.  The place was full of sweet and drowsy odors.  Birds called and fluted.  Butterflies and bees came and went.  She had never felt so close to Mother Earth as she did to-day, never so keenly sensed the joy of being alive.

After a while she arose, reluctantly, and went back to the house and her rooms.  She was remembering that she hadn’t yet written to Jason, and she wanted Jason to know.  Inside her sitting-room door she stopped short, eyes widened, lips fallen apart.  On the mantel, glowing, jewel-like in the clear, pure light, herself confronted her.  Herself as a great artist saw and loved her.

She stood transfixed.  The sheer power and beauty of the work, that spell which falls upon one in the presence of all great art, held her entranced.  Her own eyes looked, at her as if they challenged her; her own smile baffled her; there was that in the pictured face which brought a cry to her lips.  Oh, was she so fair in his eyes?  Only great love, as well as great genius, could have so portrayed her!

This was herself as she might be, grown finer, and of a larger faith, a deeper and sweeter charity.  A sort of awe touched her.  This man who loved her, who had the power of showing her herself as she might pray to become, this wonderful lover of hers, was no mere amateur with a pretty gift.  This was one of the few, one of the torch-bearers!

And then she noticed the Red Admiral in the corner.  She stared at it unbelievingly.  That butterfly!  Why—­why—­She had read of one who signed with a butterfly above his name pictures that were called great.  A thought that made her brain swim and her heart beat suffocatingly crashed upon her like a clap of thunder.  She walked toward the mantel like one in a daze, until she stood directly before the painting.

And it was his butterfly.  And under it was his name:  Peter Devereaux Champneys.