'But if you did not understand her quite, you have enormously helped her;
so much I will tell you for your comfort. She said to me yesterday
abruptly--we were alone in our gondola, far out on the lagoon--"Did your
brother ever tell you of a conversation he and I had in the woods at
Nuneham about Mr. Wallace's play?"

'"Yes," I answered with outward boldness, but a little inward
trepidation; "I have not known anything distress him so much for a long
time. He thought you had misunderstood him."

'"No," she said quietly, but as it seemed to me with an undercurrent of
emotion in her voice; "I did not misunderstand him. He meant what he
said, and I would have forced the truth from him, whatever happened. I
was determined to make him show me what he felt. That London season was
sometimes terrible to me. I seemed to myself to be living in two
worlds--one a world in which there was always a sea of faces opposite to
me, or crowds about me, and a praise ringing in my ears which was enough
to turn anybody's head, but which after a while repelled me as if there
was something humiliating in it; and then, on the other side, a little
inner world of people I cared for and respected, who looked at me kindly,
and thought for me, but to whom as an actress I was just of no account at
all! It was your brother who first roused that sense in me; it was so
strange and painful, for how could I help at first believing in all the
hubbub and the applause?"

'"Poor child!" I said, reaching out my hand for one of hers. "Did Eustace
make himself disagreeable to you?"

'"It was more, I think," she answered, as if reflecting, "the standard he