If Mrs. Tribb, instead of going to the kitchen, which she did, had gone out of the front door, she would have found Chaldea lying full length amongst the flowers under the large window of the studio.  This was slightly open, and the girl could hear every word that was spoken, while so swiftly and cleverly had she gained her point of vantage, that those within never for one moment suspected her presence.  If they had, they would assuredly have kept better guard over their tongues, for the conversation was of the most private nature, and did not tend to soothe the eavesdropper’s jealousy.

Lambert was so absorbed in his painting—­he was working at the Esmeralda-Quasimodo picture—­that he scarcely heard the studio door open, and it was only when Mrs. Tribb’s shrill voice announced the name of his visitor, that he woke to the surprising fact that the woman he loved was within a few feet of him.  The blood rushed to his face, and then retired to leave him deadly pale, but Agnes was more composed, and did not let her heart’s tides mount to high-water mark.  On seeing her self-possession, the man became ashamed that he had lost his own, and strove to conceal his momentary lapse into a natural emotion, by pushing forward an arm-chair.

“This is a surprise, Agnes,” he said in a voice which he strove vainly to render steady.  “Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you,” and she took her seat like a queen on her throne, looking fair and gracious as any white lily.  What with her white dress, white gloves and shoes, and straw hat tied under her chin with a broad white ribbon in old Georgian fashion, she looked wonderfully cool, and pure, and—­as Lambert inwardly observed—­holy.  Her face was as faintly tinted with color as is a tea-rose, and her calm, brown eyes, under her smooth brown hair, added to the suggestive stillness of her looks.  She seemed in her placidity to be far removed from any earthly emotion, and resembled a picture of the Madonna, serene, peaceful, and somewhat sad.  Yet who could tell what anguished feelings were masked by her womanly pride?

“I hope you do not find the weather too warm for walking,” said Lambert, reining in his emotions with an iron hand, and speaking conventionally.

“Not at all.  I enjoyed the walk.  I am staying at The Manor.”

“So I understand.”

“And you are staying here?”

“There can be no doubt on that point.”

“Do you think you are acting wisely?” she asked with great calmness.

“I might put the same question to you, Agnes, seeing that you have come to live within three miles of my hermitage.”

“It is because you are living in what you call your hermitage that I have come,” rejoined Agnes, with a slight color deepening her cheeks.  “Is it fair to me that you should shut yourself up and play the part of the disappointed lover?”

Lambert, who had been touching up his picture here and there, laid down his palette and brushes with ostentatious care, and faced her doggedly.  “I don’t understand what you mean,” he declared.