 her brother. Between Christian and her there
was no avowed confidence, but each knew the other's secret; their mutual
affection never spoke itself in words, yet none the less it was indispensable to
their lives. Deprived of his sister's company, Christian must have yielded to
the vice which had already too strong a hold upon him, and have become a maudlin
drunkard. Left to herself, Marcella had but slender support against a grim
temptation already beckoning her in nights of sleeplessness. Of the two, her
nature was the more tragic. Circumstances aiding, Christian might still forget
his melancholy, abandon the whisky bottle, and pass a lifetime of amiable
uxoriousness, varied with scientific enthusiasm. But for Marcella, frustrate in
the desire with which every impulse of her being had identified itself, what
future could be imagined?
    When a day or two of sunlight (the rays through a semi-opaque atmosphere
which London has to accept with gratitude) had announced that the seven-months'
winter was overcome, and when the newspapers began to speak, after their
fashion, of pictures awaiting scrutiny, Christian exerted himself to rouse his
sister from her growing indolence. He succeeded in taking her to the Academy.
Among the works of sculpture, set apart for the indifference of the public, was
a female head, catalogued as A Nihilist - in itself interesting, and specially
so to Marcella, because it was executed by an artist whose name she recognised
as that of a schoolmate, Agatha Walworth. She spoke of the circumstance to
Christian, and added:
    »I should like to have that. Let us go and see the price.«
    The work was already sold. Christian, happy that his sister could be aroused
to this interest, suggested that a cast might be obtainable.
    »Write to Miss Walworth,« he urged. »Bring yourself to her recollection. - I
should think she must be the right kind of woman.«
    Though at the time she shook her head, Marcella was presently tempted to
address a letter to the artist, who responded with friendly invitation. In this
way a new house was opened to her; but, simultaneously, one more illusion was
destroyed. Knowing little of life, and much of literature, she pictured Miss
Walworth as inhabiting a delightful Bohemian world, where the rules of
conventionalism had no existence, and everything was judged by the
brain-standard. Modern French biographies supplied all her ideas of studio
society. She prepared herself for the first visit with a joyous tremor,
wondering whether she would be deemed worthy to associate with the men and women
who
