But wait till you see the thing." Bertha was bubbling over with amusement; for, whilst the artist talked, she thought of Rosamund's farewell entreaty, that she would do her best, if occasion offered, to strengthen Norbert Franks under his affliction, even by depreciatory comment on the faithless girl; there came into her mind, too, those many passages of Rosamund's letters where Franks was spoken of in terms of profoundest compassion mingled with dark remorse.

Perhaps her smile, which quivered on the verge of laughter, betrayed the nature of her thought.

Of a sudden, Franks ceased to talk; his countenance changed, overcast with melancholy; and when, after some moments' silence, Bertha again spoke of the landscape, he gave only a dull assent to her words.
"And it all comes too late," fell from him, presently.

"Too late." "Your success ?" "What's the good of it to me ?" He smote his leg with the rattan he was swinging.

"A couple of years ago, money would have meant everything.
Now--what do I care about it!" Bertha's surprise obliged her to keep an unnaturally solemn visage.
"Don't you think it'll grow upon you," she said, "if you give it time ?" "Grow upon me?
Why, I'm only afraid it may.