money. He was immensely popular, quite sought after socially; but he
declined half his invitations and lived a rather quiet existence in the
small flat, with its Oriental decorations and violent post-impressions
and fierce Chinese weapons, high up in Victoria Street. Vincy really
concealed under an amiable and gentle exterior the kindest heart of any
man in London. There was 'more in him than met the eye,' as people say,
and, frank and confidential as he was to his really intimate friends,
at least one side of his life was lived in shadow. It was his secret
romance with a certain young girl artist, whom he saw rarely, for
sufficient reasons. He was not devoted to her in the way that he was to
Edith, for whom he had the wholehearted enthusiasm of a loyal friend,
and the idolising worship of a fanatic admirer. It was perhaps Vincy's
nature, a little, to sacrifice himself for anyone he was fond of. He
spent a great deal of time thinking out means of helping materially the
young art-student, and always he succeeded in this object by his
elaborate and tactful care. For he knew she was very, very poor, and
that her pride was of an old-fashioned order--she never said she was
hard up, as every modern person does, whether rich or poor, but he knew
that she really lacked what he considered very nearly--if not
quite--the necessities of life.

Vincy's feeling for her was a curious one. He had known her since she
was sixteen (she was now twenty-four). Yet he did not trust her, and
she troubled him. He had met her at a studio at a time when he had
thought of studying art seriously. Sometimes, something about her
worried and wearied him, yet he couldn't do without her for long. The
fact that he knew he was of great help to her fascinated him; he often
thought that if she had been rich and he poor he would never wish to
see her again. Certainly it was the touch of pathos in her life that
held him; also, of course, she was pretty, with a pale thin face, deep