“Mr. Quarrier wishes to see you, sir.”

Denzil entered, and had a friendly greeting.  The Glazzards did not see much of him, for he was over head and ears in politics, social questions, philanthropic undertakings—­these last in memory of Lilian, whose spirit had wrought strongly in him since her death.  He looked a much riper and graver man than a year ago.  His language was moderate; he bore himself reservedly, at moments with diffidence.  But there was the old frank cordiality undiminished.  To Serena he spoke with the gentle courtesy which marks a man’s behaviour to women when love and grief dwell together in his heart.

“Our friend Judas?” he said, stepping up to the model.  “Finished at last?”

“Something like it.”  Glazzard replied, tapping the back of his hand with a tool.

“Discontented, as usual!  I know nothing about this kind of thing, but I should say it was very good.  Makes one uncomfortable—­ doesn’t it, Mrs. Glazzard?  Do something pleasanter next time.”

“Precisely what I was saying,” fell from Serena.

They talked awhile, and Mrs. Glazzard left the room.

“I want to know your mind on a certain point,” said Denzil.  “Mrs. Wade has been asking me to bring her together with your wife and you.  Now, what is your feeling?”

The other stood in hesitation, but his features expressed no pleasure.

“What is your feeling?” he asked, in return.

“Why, to tell you the truth, I can’t advise you to make a friend of her.  I’m sorry to say she has got into a very morbid state of mind.  I see more of her than I care to.  She has taken up with a lot of people I don’t like—­rampant women—­extremists of many kinds.  There’s only one thing:  it’s perhaps my duty to try and get her into a more sober way of life, and if all steady-going people reject her ——­Still, I don’t think either you or your wife would like to have her constantly coming here.”

“I think not,” said Glazzard, with averted face.

“Well, I shall tell her that she would find you very unsympathetic.  I’m sorry for her; I wish she could recover a healthy mind.”

He brooded for a moment, and the lines that came into his face gave it an expression of unrest and melancholy out of keeping with its natural tone.

In a few minutes he was gone, and presently Serena returned to the studio.  She found her husband in a dark reverie, a mood to which he often yielded, which she always did her best to banish.

“Do you think, Eustace,” she asked, “that Mr. Quarrier will marry again?”

“Oh, Some day, of course.”

“I shall he sorry.  There’s something I have often meant to tell you about his wife; I will now.”

He looked up attentively.  Serena had never been admitted to his confidence regarding Lilian’s story; to her, the suicide was merely a woful result of disordered health.