“Mr. Winterfield, let me introduce you to Mrs. Romayne.”  They bowed to each other; they spoke the conventional words proper to the occasion—­but the effort that it cost them showed itself.  Romayne perceived an unusual formality in his wife’s manner, and a strange disappearance of Winterfield’s easy grace of address.  Was he one of the few men, in these days, who are shy in the presence of women?  And was the change in Stella attributable, perhaps, to the state of her health?  The explanation might, in either case, be the right one.  He tried to set them at their ease.

“Mr. Winterfield is so pleased with the pictures, that he means to come and see them again,” he said to his wife.  “And one of his favorites happens to be your favorite, too.”

She tried to look at Winterfield, but her eyes sank.  She could turn toward him, and that was all.  “Is it the sea-piece in the study?” she said to him faintly.

“Yes,” he answered, with formal politeness; “it seems to me to be one of the painter’s finest works.”

Romayne looked at him in unconcealed wonder.  To what flat commonplace Winterfield’s lively enthusiasm had sunk in Stella’s presence!  She perceived that some unfavorable impression had been produced on her husband, and interposed with a timely suggestion.  Her motive was not only to divert Romayne’s attention from Winterfield, but to give him a reason for leaving the room.

“The little water-color drawing in my bedroom is by the same artist,” she said.  “Mr. Winterfield might like to see it.  If you will ring the bell, Lewis, I will send my maid for it.”

Romayne had never allowed the servants to touch his works of art, since the day when a zealous housemaid had tried to wash one of his plaster casts.  He made the reply which his wife had anticipated.

“No! no!” he said.  “I will fetch the drawing myself.”  He turned gayly to Winterfield.  “Prepare yourself for another work that you would like to kiss.”  He smiled, and left the room.

The instant the door was closed, Stella approached Winterfield.  Her beautiful face became distorted by a mingled expression of rage and contempt.  She spoke to him in a fierce peremptory whisper.

“Have you any consideration for me left?” His look at her, as she put that question, revealed the most complete contrast between his face and hers.  Compassionate sorrow was in his eyes, tender forbearance and respect spoke in his tones, as he answered her.

“I have more than consideration for you, Stella—­”

She angrily interrupted him.  “How dare you call me by my Christian name?”

He remonstrated, with a gentleness that might have touched the heart of any woman.  “Do you still refuse to believe that I never deceived you?  Has time not softened your heart to me yet?”

She was more contemptuous toward him than ever.  “Spare me your protestations,” she said; “I heard enough of them two years since.  Will you do what I ask of you?”