Pendyce, stoics’ club. 
               “Be at studio six to seven.—­H.”

From the post-office she drove to her jeweller’s, and many a man who saw her pass with the flush on her cheeks and the smouldering look in her eyes, as though a fire were alight within her, turned in his tracks and bitterly regretted that he knew not who she was, or whither going.  The jeweller took the jewels from the green box, weighed them one by one, and slowly examined each through his lens.  He was a little man with a yellow wrinkled face and a weak little beard, and having fixed in his mind the sum that he would give, he looked at his client prepared to mention less.  She was sitting with her elbows on the counter, her chin resting in her hands, and her eyes were fixed on him.  He decided somehow to mention the exact sum.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, madam; that is the utmost.”

“Very well, but I must have it now in cash!”

The jeweller’s eyes flickered.

“It’s a large sum,” he said—­“most unusual.  I haven’t got such a sum in the place.”

“Then please send out and get it, or I must go elsewhere.”

The jeweller brought his hands together, and washed them nervously.

“Excuse me a moment; I’ll consult my partner.”

He went away, and from afar he and his partner spied her nervously.  He came back with a forced smile.  Mrs. Bellew was sitting as he had left her.

“It’s a fortunate chance; I think we can just do it, madam.”

“Give me notes, please, and a sheet of paper.”  The jeweller brought them.

Mrs. Bellew wrote a letter, enclosed it with the bank notes in the bulky envelope she had brought, addressed it, and sealed the whole.

“Call a cab, please!”

The jeweller called a cab.

“Chelsea Embankment!”

The cab bore her away.

Again in the crowded streets so full of traffic, people turned to look after her.  The cabman, who put her down at the Albert Bridge, gazed alternately at the coins in his hands and the figure of his fare, and wheeling his cab towards the stand, jerked his thumb in her direction.

Mrs. Bellew walked fast down a street till, turning a corner, she came suddenly on a small garden with three poplar-trees in a row.  She opened its green gate without pausing, went down a path, and stopped at the first of three green doors.  A young man with a beard, resembling an artist, who was standing behind the last of the three doors, watched her with a knowing smile on his face.  She took out a latch-key, put it in the lock, opened the door, and passed in.

The sight of her face seemed to have given the artist an idea.  Propping his door open, he brought an easel and canvas, and setting them so that he could see the corner where she had gone in, began to sketch.

An old stone fountain with three stone frogs stood in the garden near that corner, and beyond it was a flowering currant-bush, and beyond this again the green door on which a slanting gleam of sunlight fell.  He worked for an hour, then put his easel back and went out to get his tea.