Oswyn would probably not be there; and, after all, why should he not inspect the man’s pictures?

Before reasons had time to present themselves he had passed into the room, and had been deferentially welcomed and presented with a catalogue by the proprietor in person.

The room was still crowded, and it was oppressively warm, with an atmosphere redolent of woollen and silken fabrics, like a milliner’s shop on the day of a sale.

At first he made no effort to join his wife, whom he discerned from afar talking to a pillar of the Church in gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat.

He looked at the pictures whenever there was a break in the sequence of bows and greetings which had to be exchanged with two-thirds of the people in the room; and as he looked he was smitten with a quick thrill of admiration:  he was still young enough to recognise the hand of the master.  And in his admiration there was a trace of a frank envy, a certain unresentful humiliation—­the feeling which he could remember to have experienced many times in the old days, when he put aside the sonnet he had just finished for some fashionable magazine, and took down from his limited bookshelf the little time-worn volume which contained the almost forgotten work of a poet whose name would have fallen strangely on the editorial ear.

Before long there was a general departure, and Lightmark, flushed with the triumphs of a conversation in which, in the very centre of an admiring group of his antagonist’s worshippers, he had successfully measured swords with a notorious wit, turned to look for his wife; and, for the first time, meeting Oswyn’s eye, half-involuntarily advanced to greet him.

“This is an unexpected honour,” said Oswyn coldly, disregarding the proffered hand; “unexpected and unwelcome!”

Then he would have turned away, leaving his contempt and hatred unspoken, but his passion was too strong.

“Have you come to seek ideas for your next Academy picture,” he continued quickly, with a sneer trembling on his lips, “or for the Outcry?”

Lightmark grew a little pale, biting his lip, and frowning for a moment, before he assumed a desperate mask of good-humour.

“Hang it, man!” he answered quickly, “be reasonable!  Haven’t you forgiven me yet?  Though what you have to forgive——­ I only want to congratulate you, to tell you that I admire your work—­immensely.”

“I don’t want your congratulations,” interrupted the other hoarsely.  “I might forget the wrong which, as you well know, you have done me; that is nothing!  But have you forgotten your—­your friend, Rainham?  You had better go,” he added, with a savage gesture.  “Go! before I denounce you, proclaim you, you pitiful scoundrel!”

The man’s forced calm had given way to a quivering passion; his lips trembled under the stress of the words which thronged to them; and as he turned on his heel, with a glance eloquent of loathing, he did not notice that Eve was standing close behind her husband, with parted lips, and intent eyes gleaming out of a face as pale as his own.