’The gentleman bent over me, and hurriedly raised me from the couch, and then fairly carried me out of the room.  But you seem very excited, Henry, you have turned quite pale.’

It would have been wonderful if I had not turned pale.  So deeply burnt into my brain had been the picture I had imagined of Winnie dead and in a pauper’s grave that even now, with Winnie in my arms, it all came to me, and I seemed to see her lying in a pauper’s shroud, and being restored to life, and I said to her, ’Did you observe—­did you observe your dress, Winnie?’

She answered my question by a little laugh.  ’Did I observe my dress at such a moment?  Well, I knew you could be satirical on my sex when you are in the mood, but, Henry, there are moments, I assure you, when the first thing a woman observes is not her dress, and this was one.  Afterwards I did observe it, and I can tell you what it was.  It was a walking-dress.  Perhaps,’ said she, with a smile, ’perhaps you would like to know the material?  But really I have forgotten that.’  ’Pardon my idle question, Winnie—­pray go on.  I will interrupt you no more.’

’Oh, you will interrupt me no more!  We shall see.  The gentleman then led me through a passage of some length.’

‘Do describe it!’

’I felt quite sure you would interrupt me no more.  Well!  The dim light in the windows made me guess I was in an old house, and from the sweet smell of hay and wild-flowers I thought we were near the Wilderness, at Raxton.  I could only imagine that I had fallen insensible on the sands and been taken to Raxton Hall.’

‘Ah! that’s where you ought to have been taken.’  I could not help exclaiming.

‘Surely not,’ said Winnie.

‘Why?’

‘Your mother!  But why have you turned so angry?’

In spite of all that I had lately witnessed of my mother’s sufferings from remorse, in spite of all the deep and genuine pity that those sufferings had drawn from me, Winnie’s words struck deeper than any pity for any creature but herself, and for a moment my soul rose against my mother again.

‘Go on, Winnie, pray go on,’ I said.

‘You will make me talk about myself,’ said Winifred, ’when I so much want to hear all about you.  This is what I call the self-indulgence of love.  Well, then, the gentleman and I mounted some steps and then we entered a tapestried room.  The windows—­they were quaint and old-fashioned casements—­were open, and the sunlight was pouring through them.  I then saw at once that I was not anywhere near Raxton.  Besides, there was no sea-smell mixed with the perfumes of the flowers and the songs of the birds.  That I was not near Raxton, very much amazed me, you may be sure.  And then the room was so new to me and so strange.  I had never been in an artist’s studio, but Sinfi had talked to me of such places, and there were many signs that I was in a studio now.’

‘A studio!  And not in London!  Describe it, Winnie,’ I said.