I seemed to have no time to think about prosecuting inquiries in regard to her identity.  I am afraid there was much selfishness in this, but I have never pretended to be an unselfish man.

The one drop of bitterness in my cup of pleasure was the recurrence of the terrible paroxysms to which she was subject.

I was alarmed to find that these became more and more frequent and more and more severe.  I felt at last that her system could not stand the strain much longer, and that the end of her life was not far distant.

It was in a very singular way that I came to know her name and also her relations with you.  In my original perplexity about finding a model for my Zenelophon, I had bethought me of Sinfi Lovell, who, with a friend of hers named Rhona Boswell, sat to Wilderspin, to your cousin, and others.  I had made inquiries about Sinfi, but had been told that she was not now to be had, as she had abandoned London altogether, and was settled in Wales.

One day, however, I was startled by seeing Sinfi walking across the meadows along the footpath leading from the station.

She told me that she had quitted Wales for good, and had left you there, and that on reaching London and calling at one of the studios where she used to sit, she had been made aware of my inquiries after her.  As she had now determined to sit a good deal to painters, she had gone to my studio in London.  Being told there that I was at Hurstcote Manor, where she had sat to me on several occasions, she had taken the train and come down.

During our conversation the model passed through the garden gate and walked towards the Spinney, and stood looking in a rapt way at the sunset clouds and listening to the birds.

When Sinfi caught sight of her she stood as if petrified, and exclaimed, ’Winnie Wynne!  Then she ain’t dead; the dukkeripen was true; they’ll be married arter all.  Don’t let her see me suddenly, it might bring on fits.’

Miss Wynne, however, had observed neither Sinfi nor me, and we two passed into the garden without any difficulty.

In the studio Sinfi sat down, and in a state of the deepest agitation she told me much of the story, as far as she knew it, of yourself and Miss Wynne, but I could see that she was not telling me all.

We were both perplexed as to what would be the best course of action to take in regard to Miss Wynne—­whether to let her see Sinfi or not, for evidently she was getting worse, the paroxysms were getting more frequent and more severe.  They would come without any apparent disturbing cause whatever.  Now that I had to connect her you had lost in Wales with the model, many things returned to me which I had previously forgotten, things which you had told me in London.  I had quite lately learnt a good deal from Dr. Mivart, who formerly practised near the town in which you lived, but who now lives in London.  He had been attending me for insomnia.  While speculating as to what would