casual a thought, the greatest saint might be the victim of a
wandering thought. She was, of course, glad that he liked her, but she
was sorry that she had caused him suffering. He must have suffered.
Men will sacrifice anything for their passions. But no, Ralph had
always been nice with her, she owed him a great deal; they had had
pleasant times together--in this very gallery. She could remember
almost every word he said. She had liked him to lean over her
shoulder, and correct her drawing. He would never do so again.

Good heavens! ... Just before Miss Brand came up to speak to her she
was wondering if she should meet him in the gallery, and what he would
think of the Greuse. He wouldn't care much about it. He didn't care
much about the French eighteenth century, of course he admired
Watteau, but it was an impersonal admiration, there was nothing of the
Watteau, Greuse, Pater, or Lancret in him. He was purely English. He
took no interest in the unreal charm that that head expressed. Of
course, no such girl had ever existed or could exist, those melting
eyes and the impossible innocence of that mouth! It was the soul of a
courtesan in the body of a virgin. She was like that, somewhat like
that; and, inspired by the likeness between herself and the picture,
Mildred took up her charcoal and continued her drawing.

But she must have been thinking vaguely all the while of Ralph, for
suddenly her thoughts became clear and she heard the words as if they
had been read to her: 'Lots of men have killed themselves for women,
but to die of a broken heart proves a great deal more. Few women have
inspired such a love as that.... If it were known--if--she pushed the
thought angrily aside as one might a piece of furniture over which one
has stumbled in the dark. It was shocking that thoughts should come
uncalled for, and such thoughts! the very opposite of what she really