and striking picture, and Sophia thought for an instant that she had at length encountered life on a plane that would correspond to her dreams of romance.  And she was impressed, with a feeling somewhat akin to that of a middling commoner when confronted with a viscount.  There was, in the distance, something imposing and sensational about that prone, trembling figure.  The tragic works of love were therein apparently manifest, in a sort of dignified beauty.  But when Sophia bent over Madame Foucault, and touched her flabbiness, this illusion at once vanished; and instead of being dramatically pathetic the woman was ridiculous.  Her face, especially as damaged by tears, could not support the ordeal of inspection; it was horrible; not a picture, but a palette; or like the coloured design of a pavement artist after a heavy shower.  Her great, relaxed eyelids alone would have rendered any face absurd; and there were monstrous details far worse than the eyelids.  Then she was amazingly fat; her flesh seemed to be escaping at all ends from a corset strained to the utmost limit.  And above her boots—­she was still wearing dainty, high-heeled, tightly laced boots—­the calves bulged suddenly out.

As a woman of between forty and fifty, the obese sepulchre of a dead vulgar beauty, she had no right to passions and tears and homage, or even the means of life; she had no right to expose herself picturesquely beneath a crimson glow in all the panoply of ribboned garters and lacy seductiveness.  It was silly; it was disgraceful.  She ought to have known that only youth and slimness have the right to appeal to the feelings by indecent abandonments.

Such were the thoughts that mingled with the sympathy of the beautiful and slim Sophia as she bent down to Madame Foucault.  She was sorry for her landlady, but at the same time she despised her, and resented her woe.

“What is the matter?” she asked quietly.

“He has chucked me!” stammered Madame Foucault.  “And he’s the last.  I have no one now!”

She rolled over in the most grotesque manner, kicking up her legs, with a fresh outburst of sobs.  Sophia felt quite ashamed for her.

“Come and lie down.  Come now!” she said, with a touch of sharpness.  “You musn’t lie there like that.”

Madame Foucault’s behaviour was really too outrageous.  Sophia helped her, morally rather than physically, to rise, and then persuaded her into the large bedroom.  Madame Foucault fell on the bed, of which the counterpane had been thrown over the foot.  Sophia covered the lower part of her heaving body with the counterpane.

“Now, calm yourself, please!”

This room too was lit in crimson, by a small lamp that stood on the night-table, and though the shade of the lamp was cracked, the general effect of the great chamber was incontestably romantic.  Only the pillows of the wide bed and a small semi-circle of floor were illuminated, all the rest lay in shadow.  Madame Foucault’s head had dropped between the pillows.  A tray containing dirty plates and glasses and a wine-bottle was speciously picturesque on the writing-table.