When she was able to leave her room she was ordered to the sea-side.
After a fortnight in Brighton she went to stay with some friends in
town. Christmas she spent in Sutton. There was a large party of
Harold's friends, business folk, whom Mildred hated. She was glad when
they left, and she was free to choose the room that suited her purpose
best. She purchased draperies, and hired models, and commenced a
picture. She commenced a second picture, but that too went wrong; she
then tried a few studies. She got on better with these, but it soon
became clear to her that she could not carry out her ideas until she
had learned to draw.

Another two years of hard work in the studio were necessary. But as
she was not going to Paris till the spring her thoughts turned to the
National Gallery, and on the following week she commenced copying a
head by Greuse. She had barely finished sketching in the head when
Miss Brand told her that Ralph was very ill and was not expected to
live. She laid her charcoal on the easel, the movement was very slow,
and she lifted a frightened face.

'What is the matter with him? Do you know?'

'He caught a bad cold about a month ago, he doesn't seem ever to have
got over it. But for a long time he has been looking worried, you know
the look of a man who has something on his mind.'

A close observer might have noticed that the expression on Mildred's
face changed a little. 'He is dying for me,' she thought. 'He is dying
for love of me.' And as in a ray of sunlight she basked for a moment
in a little glow of self-satisfaction. Then, almost angrily, she
defended herself against herself. She was not responsible for so