She felt that, in breaking off her connection with him, she had lost the one person who could give her entire sympathy; to whom she might have spoken with certainty of being understood, of all the novel ideas which possessed her; who, indeed, would have been invaluable as a guide in the unknown land she was treading.

It was now almost the end of the year; more than three months had gone by since she received that last letter from him.

Could she write now, and let him know that she was in London?
She could not but give expression to her altered self; and would he be able to understand her?
Yet,--she needed him; and there was something of her mother in the fretting to which she was now and then driven by the balked desire.

At length she was on the point of writing a letter, with whatever result, when chance spared her the trouble.
One morning in December, she went with her mother to an exhibition of pictures in Bond Street.

Such visits had been common of late; Mrs.
Enderby could rarely occupy herself at home, and pictures, as everything beautiful, always attracted her.