Rosamund did not reply.  She had half averted her look; her brows were knit in an expression of trouble; she bit her lower lip.  A moment passed, and—­

“Suppose we go into the garden,” she said, rising.  “Don’t you feel it a little close here?”

They strolled about the paths.  Her companion, seeming to have dismissed from mind their subject of conversation, began to talk of Egypt, and the delight she promised herself there.

Presently Bertha reverted to the unfinished story.

“Oh, it doesn’t interest you.”

“Doesn’t it indeed!  Please go on.  You had just explained all about ’Sanctuary’—­which isn’t really a bad picture at all.”

“Oh, Bertha!” cried the other in pained protest.  “That’s your good nature.  You never can speak severely of anybody’s work.  The picture is shameful, shameful!  And its successor, I am too sure, will be worse still, from what I have heard of it.  Oh, I can’t bear to think of what it all means—­Now that it’s too late, I see what I ought to have done.  In spite of everything and everybody I ought to have married him in the first year, when I had courage and hope enough to face any hardships.  We spoke of it, but he was too generous.  What a splendid thing to have starved with him—­to have worked for him whilst he was working for art and fame, to have gone through and that together, and have come out triumphant!  That was a life worth living.  But to begin marriage at one’s ease on the profits of pictures such as ’Sanctuary’—­oh, the shame of it!  Do you think I could face the friends who would come to see me?”

“How many friends,” asked Bertha, “would be aware of your infamy?  I credit myself with a little imagination.  But I should never have suspected the black baseness which had poisoned your soul.”

Again Rosamund bit her lip, and kept a short silence.

“It only shows,” she said with some abruptness, “that I shall do better not to speak of it at all, and let people think what they like of me.  If even you can’t understand.”

Bertha stood still, and spoke in a changed voice.

“I understand very well—­or think I do.  I’m perfectly sure that you could never have broken your engagement unless for the gravest reason—­and for me it is quite enough to know that.  Many a girl ought to do this, who never has the courage.  Try not to worry about explanations, the thing is done, and there’s an end of it.  I’m very glad indeed you’re going quite away; it’s the best thing possible.  When do you start?” she added.

“In three days.—­Listen, Bertha, I have something very serious to ask of you.  It is possible—­isn’t it?—­that he may come to see you some day.  If he does, or if by chance you see him alone, and if he speaks of me, I want you to make him think—­you easily can—­ that what has happened is all for his good.  Remind him how often artists have been spoilt by marriage, and hint—­you surely could —­that I am rather too fond of luxury, and that kind of thing.”