When a day or two of sunlight (the rays through a semi-opaque atmosphere which London has to accept with gratitude) had announced that the seven-months’ winter was overcome, and when the newspapers began to speak, after their fashion, of pictures awaiting scrutiny, Christian exerted himself to rouse his sister from her growing indolence.  He succeeded in taking her to the Academy.  Among the works of sculpture, set apart for the indifference of the public, was a female head, catalogued as ’A Nihilist’—­in itself interesting, and specially so to Marcella, because it was executed by an artist whose name she recognised as that of a schoolmate, Agatha Walworth.  She spoke of the circumstance to Christian, and added: 

‘I should like to have that.  Let us go and see the price.’

The work was already sold.  Christian, happy that his sister could be aroused to this interest, suggested that a cast might be obtainable.

‘Write to Miss Walworth,’ he urged.  ’Bring yourself to her recollection.—­I should think she must be the right kind of woman.’

Though at the time she shook her head, Marcella was presently tempted to address a letter to the artist, who responded with friendly invitation.  In this way a new house was opened to her; but, simultaneously, one more illusion was destroyed.  Knowing little of life, and much of literature, she pictured Miss Walworth as inhabiting a delightful Bohemian world, where the rules of conventionalism had no existence, and everything was judged by the brain-standard.  Modern French biographies supplied all her ideas of studio society.  She prepared herself for the first visit with a joyous tremor, wondering whether she would be deemed worthy to associate with the men and women who lived for art.  The reality was a shock.  In a large house at Chiswick she found a gathering of most respectable English people, chatting over the regulation tea-cup; not one of them inclined to disregard the dictates of Mrs. Grundy in dress, demeanour, or dialogue.  Agatha Walworth lived with her parents and her sisters like any other irreproachable young woman.  She had a nice little studio, and worked at modelling with a good deal of aptitude; but of Bohemia she knew nothing whatever, save by hearsay.  Her ‘Nihilist’ was no indication of a rebellious spirit; some friend had happened to suggest that a certain female model, a Russian, would do very well for such a character, and the hint was tolerably well carried out—­nothing more.  Marcella returned in a mood of contemptuous disappointment.  The cast she had desired to have was shortly sent to her as a gift, but she could take no pleasure in it.

Still, she saw more of the Walworths and found them not illiberal.  Agatha was intelligent, and fairly well read in modern authors; no need to conceal one’s opinions in conversation with her.  Marcella happened to be spending the evening with these acquaintances whilst her brother was having his chat at Staple Inn; on her return, she mentioned to Christian that she had been invited to visit the Walworths in Devonshire a few weeks hence.