“Yes,” said Rosamund.

“You and I met—­at least we were in the same room once—­at Tippie Chetwinde’s,” said Lady Ingleton, almost pleading with her visitor.  “I heard you sing.”

“Yes, I remember.  I told Father Robertson so.”

“I dare say you think it very strange my coming here in this way.”

In spite of the strong effort of her will Lady Ingleton was feeling with every moment more painfully embarrassed.  All her code was absolutely against mixing in the private concerns of others uninvited.  She had a sort of delicate hatred of curiosity.  She longed to prove to the woman by the fire that she was wholly incurious now, wholly free from the taint of sordid vulgarity that clings to the social busybody.

“I’ve done it solely because I’m very sorry for some one,” she continued; “because I’m very sorry for your husband.”

She looked away from Rosamund, and again her eyes rested on the engraving of “Wedded.”  The large bare arms of the man, his bending, amorous head, almost hypnotized her.  She disliked the picture of which this was a reproduction.  Far too many people had liked it; their affection seemed to her to have been destructive, to have destroyed any value it had formerly had.  Yet now, as she looked almost in despite of herself, suddenly she saw through the engraving, through the symbol, to something beyond; to the prompting conception in the painter’s mind which had led to the picture, to the great mystery of the pathetic attempt of human beings who love, or who think they love, to unite themselves to each other, to mingle body with body and soul with soul.  She saw a woman in the dress of a “sister,” the woman who was with her; she saw a man in an Eastern city; and abruptly courage came to her on the wings of a genuine emotion.

“I don’t know how to tell you what I feel about him, Mrs. Leith,” she said.  “But I want to try to.  Will you let me?”

“Yes.  Please tell me,” said Rosamund, in a level, expressionless voice.

“Remember this; I never saw him till I saw him in Turkey, nor did my husband.  We were not able to draw any comparison between the unhappy man and the happy man.  We were unprejudiced.”

“I quite understand that; thank you.”

“It was in the summer.  We were living at Therapia on the Bosporus.  He came to stay in a hotel not far off.  My husband met him in a valley which the Turks call Kesstane Dereh.  He—­your husband—­was sitting there alone by a stream.  They talked.  My husband asked him to call at our summer villa.  He came the next day.  Of course I—­I knew something of his story”—­she hurried on—­“and I was prepared to meet a man who was unhappy. (Forgive me for saying all this.)”

“But, please, I have come to hear,” said Rosamund, coldly and steadily.