felt. That man had been very good to her; she had liked him very much.
It was shocking that she had been the cause of his death. It was too
terrible. But it was most improbable, it was much more likely that his
illness was the effect of the cold he had caught last month. Men did
not die of broken hearts. She had nothing whatever to do with it....
And yet she didn't know. When men like him set their hearts on a
woman--she was very sorry, she was sorry. But there was no use
thinking any more about it...

So she locked up her paint-box and left the gallery. She was nervous;
her egotism had frightened her a little. He was dying, and for her,
yet she felt nothing. Not only were her eyes dry, but her heart was
too. A pebble with her own name written on it, that was her heart. She
wished to feel, she longed for the long ache of regret which she read
of in books, she yearned for tears. Tears were a divine solace, grief
was beautiful. And all along the streets she continued to woo sorrow--
she thought of his tenderness, the real goodness of his nature, his
solicitude for her, and she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the
pleasant hours they had passed together.

Her heart remained unmoved, but her feet led her towards St. James'
Park. She thought she would like to see it again, and when she stood
on the bridge where they had so often stood, when she visited the seat
where they had often sat chatting under the budding trees her eyes
would surely fill with tears, and she would grieve for her dying lover
as appropriately as any other woman.

But that day the park was submerged in blue mist. The shadows of the
island fell into the lake, still as death; and the birds, moving
through the little light that lingered on the water, seemed like