Later she began to reproach herself.  She reflected, with a kind of scornful wonder at her weakness, that she had allowed all chance of explanation to escape; the one man whom she could trust, who would surely give her a straightforward answer if she appealed to him by the memory of the old days, was beyond the reach of her questions, silent to eternity.  Her former sorrow seemed trivial by comparison with this.

On his return, Lightmark found his wife looking so pale and tired that he broke off in the middle of the story of his flattering reception at the German Court to express a suggestion for her benefit, that she had better go to Brighton or somewhere to recruit.  She would never get through the season at this rate.  Yes, she must certainly take a holiday, directly after the Academy Private View.

Eve caught at the idea, only she did not wait for the Academy to open.  She went for a fortnight, accompanied by an old servant of the family, who regarded her mistress’s birth as quite a recent event, to Mrs. Sylvester’s cottage in Norfolk.

When Mrs. Lightmark came back to town her face was still pale, but her brow wore a serener air, and her eyes had lost their look of apprehension.  The woman had arisen triumphant out of the ashes of her childhood, with a heart determined to know the truth, and to face it, however bitter it might prove to be.  Meanwhile, she would not judge hastily.

As she drove up Bond Street one day soon after her return to town, the advertisement of Oswyn’s exhibition caught her eye.  She would probably have remembered a name so uncommon if she had only heard it once, and, as it was, she had heard it several times, and associated with it, moreover, a certain reticence which could not fail to arouse a woman’s curiosity.

Later, when Mosenthal’s card of invitation for the Private View arrived, she noted the day upon her list of engagements.

On the morning of Oswyn’s ordeal, Eve sent a message to her husband, who was engaged with a model in the studio, to notify to him her intention of taking the carriage into town later in the afternoon; to which he had returned a gallant reply, expressing a hope that, if it would not bore her too much, she would pick him up somewhere and drive him home.  Where and when could he meet her?  The reply, “At Mosenthal’s at five o’clock,” did not surprise him.  He did not happen to have the vaguest idea as to what was the attraction of the day at that particular gallery.  It might be Burmese landscapes, or portraits of parrots; it was all one to him.  It was extremely decorous in his wife to affect picture-galleries, and Mosenthal’s place was conveniently near to his favourite club.

A few minutes before the appointed hour he made his way, from the new and alarmingly revolutionary club-house, where he had been indulging in afternoon tea in company with Felicia Dollond, to the gallery, outside which his horses were already waiting, and, perceiving Oswyn’s name on the placards disposed on either side of the entrance, he felt only a momentary hesitation.