her, and that lips were pressed against her own; and such a thrill struck through her that, though now fully conscious, she had not power to stir, but lay as in the moment of some rapturous death.  For when the presence entered into her dream, when the warmth melted upon her lips, she imagined it the kiss which might once have come to her but now was lost for ever.  It was pain to open her eyes, but when she did so, and met Stella’s silent gaze, she knew that love was offered her, a love of which it was needless to speak.

Mrs. Waltham was rather afraid of Stella; privately she doubted whether the poor thing was altogether in her perfect mind.  When the visitor came the mother generally found occupation or amusement elsewhere, conversation with Stella was so extremely difficult.  Mr. Westlake was also at Exmouth, but much engaged in literary work.  There was, too, an artist and his family, with whom the Westlakes were acquainted, their name Boscobel.  Mrs. Boscobel was a woman of the world, five-and-thirty, charming, intelligent; she read little, but was full of interest in literary and artistic matters, and talked as only a woman can who has long associated with men of brains.  To her Adela was interesting, personally and still more as an illustration of a social experiment.

‘How young she is!’ was her remark to Mr. Westlake shortly after making Adela’s acquaintance.  ’It will amuse you, the thought I had; I really must tell it you.  She realises my idea of a virgin mother.  Haven’t you felt anything of the kind?’

Mr. Westlake smiled.

’Yes, I understand.  Stella said something evidently traceable to the same impression; her voice, she said, is full of forgiveness.’

‘Excellent!  And has she much to forgive, do you think?’

‘I hope not.’

‘Yet she is not exactly happy, I imagine?’

Mr. Westlake did not care to discuss the subject.  The lady had recourse to Stella for some account of Mr. Mutimer.

‘He is a strong man,’ Stella said in a tone which betrayed the Socialist’s enthusiasm.  ’He stands for earth-subduing energy.  I imagine him at a forge, beating fire out of iron.’

’H’m!  That’s not quite the same thing as imagining him that beautiful child’s husband.  No education, I suppose?’

’Sufficient.  With more, he would no longer fill the place he does.  He can speak eloquently; he is the true voice of the millions who cannot speak their own thoughts.  If he were more intellectual he would become commonplace; I hope he will never see further than he does now.  Isn’t a perfect type more precious than a man who is neither one thing nor another?’

‘Artistically speaking, by all means.’

’In his case I don’t mean it artistically.  He is doing a great work.’

’A friend of mine—­you don’t know Hubert Eldon, I think?—­tells me he has ruined one of the loveliest valleys in England.’

’Yes, I dare say he has done that.  It is an essential part of his protest against social wrong.  The earth renews itself, but a dead man or woman who has lived without joy can never be recompensed.’