Emma had cause to realize how deeply she had offended, during the next few days, for Greville assumed what she called his touch-me-not manner and was coldly polite and distant. She dreaded that attitude with all her soul for she knew neither what alienation it covered nor how to meet it. In the class from which she sprang politeness is not uncommonly the herald of fury, and she was always in expectation of a devastating hurricane which never had come as yet but was surely due one day if she could not control herself, and control herself she could not. It was impossible for her to understand why the kiss-and-be-friends reconciliation should not immediately follow a quarrel, for she “bore no malice” herself, and could not imagine why any one else should do so. She had no way of understanding the cleavage, the deep settled distaste and alienation which her outbreaks produced in a man like Greville. To him vulgarity and want of taste were more unpardonable than the fracture of any commandment of the ten, and in his cool review of Emma the fact that she had so much taste, and all of it so bad, set them universes apart.

Beauty, economy, an oddly consorted pair, pleaded alike for Emma in the calm rationalism of Greville’s mind. He knew very well he would not meet that impassioned loveliness elsewhere—loveliness that might so easily walk in satin and jewels, but for his sake contented itself with dimity and a little gold chain stringing a miniature of himself. And he knew also that never, never again would his needs be met with such comfortable economy, and never again a cook like Mrs. Cadogan be at his service without a salary that must bulk largely in his carefully kept accounts. And yet, he was certain he was nearing the end of his tether and could not endure the connection much longer.

Emma loved him passionately, tenderly, and that was but an aggravation of the offense, for if a man cares no longer for a woman her love is the last unbearable burden. She cannot realize her love as any other than a precious gift which common gratitude must repay with tenderness; she will not, cannot understand that it has in it a touch of the revolting to the man who desires her no longer. The immortal Don Juan seeking the rainbow beauty always in the next field or on the dim horizon, confident of finding her sooner or later, whispers in every man’s ear to have done with this threadbare passion and find happiness in the next soft bosom that the Eternal Feminine eternally offers—a field away, no more.

And at this time Miss Middleton’s quiet coldness and perfect restraint of manner were contrasting almost daily with Emma’s floridity of speech and over-emphasis of every gesture and attitude; or so it seemed to him. For Greville possessed even to an extreme that fastidiousness which is a kind of austerity in men who, having no austerity in morals, stress it the more in taste. He required that women should be virginal in allure though not in physical response, that they should be shy, cool, with a frozen delicate sweetness to be melted difficultly by the most polished approaches, and then enfolding the white snowdrop blossom in green leaves even from a favoured lover or husband. Such was Miss Middleton as far as he could judge. But Emma, all tropical perfumed luxuriance, expanding a warm bosom to lavish sunlight, repelled him. He was incapable of responding to such advances even in the first gust of possession. There was far too much nature in her, whereas he wanted a woman drilled by careful mother, school-mistress and dancing-master to the last perfection of self-restraint for the sake of the adored; a dainty figure of hoops and brocade in the costliest porcelain, and as cold. Nature itself must be hooped, stay-laced, and set on high heels before he could at all respect such an earth-smelling goddess.

Therefore Emma’s advances for pardon and love did but increase his discontent. What he really would have chosen would be to retain the invaluable Mrs. Cadogan and let the divine lady go, so oddly are some of us constituted. But as the way to this was not clear at present he merely chilled Emma with coldest reserve and waited on events.

“Can you never forgive me, Greville?” she said wistfully one morning, leaning over his chair after clearing away the breakfast china, and setting a bowl of red roses at his elbow, as he read a catalogue of antiques. He wore a dressing-gown of lavender silk with faint French flowering and looked unapproachably aloof and distinguished in his great chair. He turned a leaf calmly. As Romney had remarked with much shrewdness, the most unforgivable offense was that Emma had now lived with him for more than three years and yet had absorbed so little of his teaching and the high example he set her of nature discouraged with cool forms and ceremonies. The very word nature was disagreeable to Greville and the thing itself, exemplified under his nose every moment, was rapidly becoming unbearable.

“Forgiveness is scarcely the word,” he answered without raising his eyes. “I am not in the least angry with you, if that is your meaning. I merely feel that your and my dispositions are worlds apart. Exhibitions which give you pleasure to me appear odious, vulgar, revolting. Would you have the kindness to draw the curtain a little over the right window? The breeze comes in too strongly.”

She obeyed, lingering.

“Greville, do you think you see no improvement in me to repay you for all the trouble you’ve taken?”

Now he laid down his paper, leaned his head back and surveyed her.

“No, I should not say that. You were uneducated and ignorant three years ago. You could sing a ballad with the vigour that nature gives—a poor allowance, by the way. Now your voice is trained in the Italian style, and, though you have hard work before you still, you can please the connoisseur. Your drawing-master speaks well of you, and Romney commended the landscapes you have lately attempted. You read expressively, if the subject is not beyond you. I have been pleased to see you reading Hayley’s “Triumphs of Temper,” from which you can certainly take a needful lesson. Your manners are excessively improved. You have laid aside the romping hoyden. I have seen you enter a room like a lady. You have certainly a taste for simple becoming dress, and—”

The praise was too much, too unexpected. She was at his knees in an instant.

“Then you’re pleased! Oh, dear, dear Greville! Then you love me? You know I tried to please my own Greville? Your poor Emma has not failed?”

Her sparkling, glowing face adored him. He continued with discouraging serenity.

“In these respects, though you still need much tuition, you have not failed. But what I aimed at, beyond all, was character. I wished to make you valued and respected. And there there is no improvement. You are utterly unrestrained, and so far as I am a judge will never have the secure future I hope for you.”

“What, Greville, not with you, who know, who pity me? Think what I was. Oh, consider! A poor village girl, and London, and men—oh, consider, I beseech you, what chance had I? Sure the faults in me were as little to be helped as my want of book-learning. And I will cure them! Don’t you see me try?”

She caught his hand and fondled it passionately against her panting bosom. He drew it away with reserve.

“This is exactly what I complain of. Always in extremes, making scenes, overstraining feelings, raving, an exaggerated sensibility. If you could but know its indecency, how it repels! But you cannot know. You never will. I abandon the thankless task. One question: Have I not told you never to refer to that abominable past? Who ever heard Mrs. Wells drag these unpleasant subjects into the light of day?”

“Mrs. Wells,” repeated Emma, and was hopelessly silent. Then, with the utter want of tact she showed with Greville, must needs pester him further, though timidly.

“But if you taught me all these things, Greville, was I not to make use of them? Where was I to display them? Sure the time has come that you will wish me to show off some of what I have learnt and—”

“Show off!” he echoed, with a scorn to which words are inadequate. She still knelt, baffled.

“Pray get up and sit down, and let us change the subject. You have good sense of a sort, Emma, when it serves your own turn. I expect Sir William Hamilton here this afternoon, and I do most earnestly hope that for the credit of my taste there may be no outbursts in his presence. His good opinion is of consequence to me and I would not have him think I have wasted three years on one I assured him I had such high hopes of.”

The poor Emma was humbled to the earth by this time. Her terror of Sir William combined with her love for Greville made her an easy victim.

“I promise,” she said in the measured tones which she knew he approved. “I will try to get a victory over myself and seem to be happy though miserable, for miserable I must be, Greville, if your heart does not approve me.”

He uttered a word of encouragement and returned into his paper.

Behold the parlour prepared for the great, the expected guest at the hour for tea; the neatly curtained windows open to admit a scented breeze from the garden; Emma’s bowl of roses on the centre table; the precious silhouette of Greville in its black frame on the mantelpiece; Romney’s fine drawing of Emma in sepia and wash as a wistful-eyed “Solitude” exploring far horizons, above it; the chairs plump and cushioned for respected backs; the carpet soft and harmoniously coloured; and a charming table of Sheraton workmanship spread with finest damask and thin glittering silver beside the cups of egg-shell porcelain. A delightful room though small, for everything about Greville must be delicate and elegant, be it where it would. He had gone into London to fetch Hamilton, and Emma, afraid to move so much as a chair after the arrangements had met his approval, hovered between kitchen and parlour to annoy Mrs. Cadogan with fears and comments. Had Watts sent the fresh butter? The cream?

“You’d have heard of it if he hadn’t, girl, since ’twas you ordered it. Here it is, yellow as buttercups and sweeter. Put it in yon big silver milk jug, Emma. And look, here’s the strawberries, beauties, right British Queens if I know anything. Carry in the dish. Here, girl, stop. Put them leaves about them so they’ll peep out between with their fat red cheeks. Now, ain’t that pretty? And now the bread and butter.”

“The cake, mother. Is it good?”

“Good? You just smell to it. A pound of everything, and as rich as rich. And look at the Lisbon biscuits. You could all but blow them away. And I made a few ham sandwiches in case his Lordship was hungry after the ride out. Look, Emma, as pink as a dog’s tongue, and never a better ham was cut. I think it’s as well to have the orange cordial I made the winter before. Put it in a corner handy with the glasses. And now run up and dress yourself real pretty.”

She did her utmost before the looking-glass bunched with muslin and pink ribbons, and then went slowly down for her mother’s verdict.

“Will I do?”

“Do?” Mrs. Cadogan stood with arms akimbo on comfortable haunches and took a liberal survey. “Why, yes. Your hair’s beautiful. I don’t know as I ever saw you do it better. My, what a wheat stack of it you’ve got! I like that blue ribbon tied above your ear. ’Tis uncommon. White musling always suits you. Now turn about and I’ll pull out the bows of your sash. There, that’s it. Now you go in and sit down quiet, and be pretty-behaved to His Lordship, and may be he’ll leave Greville his fortune and then he’ll marry you and I’ll see you a lady yet.”

These were comfortable prophecies and always tilted Emma’s spirits, for she shared her mother’s easy-going optimism. But now she went slowly into the parlour, and stood on a chair to have a last look in the fine oval mirror Greville had set so tantalizingly high, then rearranged the tea-table and finally sat down by the window. Hope was not kind to her to-day. She was really dreadfully uneasy. Greville’s manner of late had much undermined her confidence, and supposing Sir William should share his disapproval—supposing Greville on the way out should “set him against” her—what was to become of her?

She could hear the rattle of wheels far down the road, and her heart beat violently. She started to the window. No, only old Dr. Whyte of the Manor returning from the Bank. Lord, what a fright for nothing! Wheels again, a fresh alarm, and Emma behind the curtain, fixed, scarcely breathing. Yes, yes, at last. The coach came on, bearing her fate unseen within it, and pulled up with a flourish at the door. One second she watched to see Greville leap out, followed by a tall man of slight, extremely elegant figure, and then, with a rush she was back in her chair again with the book on her lap. No—no, that was too studied, that would never do. They must know she had heard them coming. She rose, considered, shook out her skirts, and advanced with sedate sweetness to the little hall and as Greville opened the door she stood there modestly and gravely composed to welcome them. Instinct had served her rightly. It was perfection’s self.

Sir William followed and through the open door the daylight came with him and the summer scents of the garden. He saw before him a quiet girl in white and blue ribbons with a pink rose stuck in the fichu that crossed her bosom. Extremely young, fair and fresh as a posy of primroses she seemed in the half light of the hall. That was the first impression—innocence, youthful grace, a shy gentleness which could be easily daunted and needed encouragement. She advanced with veiled eyes, and Greville took her hand and led her up to him.

“Emma,” he said, smiling, and put the hand in Sir William’s.

Still she did not raise the eyes, the colour rose slightly to her cheek from the quickly beating heart, and the more so when Sir William stooped and kindly kissed the velvet flush. He retained her hand and she led him into the parlour, and to the chair she had so softly cushioned in expectation of an aged and honoured guest, for, do what Greville would he could not persuade her otherwise than that his “dear Hamilton” being over fifty must hover on senility. “Poor old gentleman!” she had said with hearty sympathy. “We’ll make him comfortable, so we will! Does he like a footstool, Greville?” And even Greville had seen the humour of the situation and had left the reality to take care of itself.

For now, Emma’s exploring eyes penetrated their shield of auburn lashes, and she beheld as handsome a man as ever she had seen in her life. He could not be more distinguished than Greville, for that was impossible, but he equalled him there, and surpassed him in a more good-humoured disdain of the persons not similarly favoured by circumstances. Greville’s disdain was conscious; Sir William’s perfectly unstudied and natural, not known to himself as disdain, and therefore infinitely more impressive. Such an obvious matter required no insistence. He never gave it a thought, any more than his breathing or his heart-beat. A Hamilton of the princely Scottish house, a habitué of courts all the days of his life, porphyrogenitus—born in the purple, so to speak—what could the average citizen appear in those genial indifferent eyes but a necessary incumbrance in the life of the Great? And there was more; educated, cultivated to the highest point, an arbiter of taste, an infallible judge in matters of accomplishment, happy in his bonnes fortunes with women, an indolently skilful diplomatist in a court of indolent pleasures—what was lacking to make Sir William charming?

Nothing, nothing! Even Greville looked a little starched, a little pinched beside him, too decided, too—yes, he became angular in that calm, worldly-wise company. Sir William sat himself in the armchair, laughing, rejected the cushions and fixed an eye keen under all its sunshine upon Emma as she glided to her place behind the tea-tray, and stilled the hissing urn.

That eye which had ranged over the beauties of Greece and Rome, fair in imperishable bronze and marble, which had surveyed the loveliest of the modern world and taken their measure and appraised each charm, now rested on Emma.

She poured his tea and offered the sandwiches, thankful to see by Greville’s expression that the provision pleased him. She picked with rosy fingers the green cups from the strawberries and prepared the mounded deliciousness with sugar, and poured the wrinkling cream, but in a calm silence. She felt, she knew she was doing the right thing in perfection, yet had no notion that Nature forced her daughter consummately to play her part. She thought it her own cleverness, while she could have done no other had she tried with all her strength, and humbly hoped it would please the great man.

It pleased him. He watched her steadily, once or twice missed what Greville said, once or twice forgot what he himself was saying and caught it by the tail as it vanished. Greville, at first a little huffed by this absence of mind, at last saw its point and triumphed silently. Emma understood fully.

Tea finished, she rose and stood beside Greville.

“I’ll take the tea out and wash up the cups. It will help mother, and these are our most precious teacups, Sir William. May I go, Greville?”

“Certainly, provided you come back then.”

Greville was gracious but did not rise to open the door though she moved towards it with the teapot. Sir William’s haste rebuked him, for he sprang, light as a boy, from the chair and held the door open with a smile at her.

“What, the fair tea-maker supposes that I shall do nothing in return for the delicious meal she has given me? A thousand times no! Greville, the tray is heavy for her.”

The two between them piled the tray and finally dismissed her through the door with one on either side like heraldic supporters. It closed on her.

“Now we can talk!” said Greville, and drew his chair up to his kinsman’s.

The first word he said was “Well?” with a keen glance at Sir William, lying back, luxurious, in his chair. There was still a scent of strawberries in the room and the faint perfume of a woman’s dress. Outside the Green was very quiet in the sinking sunlight.

Sir William was deliberate.

“In my whole life I never saw a woman so beautiful. The face, figure, colouring—perfection. The manner adorable. You prepared me for something unusual, but I never dreamt of anything like this. Lord, what a waste! In any other position she must have been a European beauty.”

“But, my dear Hamilton, you must understand she was not like this when I took her. That she was beautiful, I allow, but it was an untaught, somewhat noisy hoyden with Fetherstonehaugh. I found her quarrelling with him on the smallest provocation, ready to rollick like a good-humoured boy with the men he had down, inclined to rely too much on her good looks without attending to them; indeed, I have noticed her very nails in need of attention. But I felt the waste exactly as you now feel it, and you see the result of four years’ careful education; I might almost say creation.”

“If creation, I can only say you rank with Phidias. Indeed, your chef-d’œuvre surpasses his. A more complete beauty I never beheld. But while I don’t disparage your powers, I must say, my dear Greville, that the girl must have extraordinary ones herself. And can the story you told me of her antecedents be true? I never saw attractive modesty more expressed in any face.”

Greville applied himself to dissection.

“Absolutely true. Probably, since she confided in me herself I don’t even know the whole of her adventures though I verified her tale with inquiries. But the point with Emma is this: she is everything by turns; everything she chooses or the circumstances suggest. She sees instinctively the part which will please and plays it to admiration and thus is always at the top of her audience. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. You convey that whoever creates the picture she is always in it.”

“Exactly. In my belief that must have been the secret of all the great actresses of history, not to mention the great courtesans. Be sure Aspasia convinced her lover that she was a deep stateswoman as well as highly gifted in poetry, music and art.”

“And she was so.”

“Not she!” says Greville, with his cool contempt for women. “She merely caught his ray as a mirror catches the sun and flashed it back upon him blindingly. Combine that power with sex and beauty and you have a dazzled world.”

“Yet you are not dazzled?”

“I have lived with her for four years. I know how the springs work,” says Greville sententiously. “All the same, she is remarkable. I believe there is nothing beyond her, given the opportunity. Nothing, that is, which moves her. She could have been a great actress, so expressive is she. Talk to her of the Siddons, and in a moment she will out-Siddons the woman herself in pose; a ghastly Lady Macbeth creeping to the murder. Remind her of Mrs. Jordan and she is comedy incarnate, all roguish laughter.”

Sir William reflected, gazing at the chair Comedy had lately occupied and at her wistful-eyed portrait over the mantelpiece.

“It appears to me,” he said at length, “that having lived with her so long you have perhaps become so used to these qualities that it has a little dulled your perception of what they really signify. For since woman is always more or less of a parasite [Here the eighteenth century was vocal on the good man’s lips!] we must not expect more from them than is possible. But when carried to the height you describe, it becomes what, for a woman, is genius. And, with beauty as a pedestal, you get the woman that the world remembers.”

“Her antecedents forbid that,” says Greville with his cool certainty. “Aspasias exist no longer. There is no place for them in society. You have the Pompadours whose only skill is to traffic in places, the political beauties like the Duchess of Devonshire and Mrs. Crewe, and the detestable blue-stocking. And a certain amount of decency is required before a woman can be taken at all seriously.”

“Of decency a very little will go a long way if combined with beauty,” said Sir William, with the edge of a cynical smile touching his lips. If the Spirit of Comedy were perched on the chair Emma so lately had occupied, she also must have smiled, one imagines, to see these two grave gentlemen discussing the destiny of the woman who was to settle theirs. Indeed, the Spirit of Tragedy might almost have joined the party and animated the sad and far-seeing eyes of the portrait above the mantel.

“Her past and present, of course, shut dignified doors to her,” he continued, “but plenty of others are open and she may yet attain a kind of private influence which may be of help to you, if you give her the right setting.”

“Not to me. My circumstances forbid it, and the very thing I want to consult you on, my dear Hamilton, is how to part with her with the least pain to her, and the best provision I can afford to make, which will be little indeed, I regret to say.”

Sir William looked at him in the utmost astonishment.

“What, a man in his thirties, and part with a siren like that? You hinted at it, but now I have seen her I find it incredible. Are you on the hunt for Venus herself? Or does she care for you no longer?”

“Care?” Greville was piqued. “I don’t overstate if I say she loves me passionately. She has a quick little temper, but I might almost say she crawls to my feet for forgiveness if she offends. A more docile, pliable pupil, too, never existed. No, no. The trouble does not lie there. My debts ruffle me seriously. I have no choice. Marry I must, and I have fixed upon a lady suitable in every respect. But I need not tell you that in the town where everything is known I must part with Emma before I make my formal offer. I would willingly let things continue as they are. But you see?”

“I see,” said Hamilton, “a nice dilemma. But if you do part with her, let it be final. I have always been averse from the idea of these relationships continuing after marriage. Very few wives can be brought to take such a matter with indifference and where a husband is largely dependent on a wife’s fortune and settlements are strict—well, it needs no detailing for a man who desires peace.”

“I fully agree. No, the parting shall be final.”

“I conclude it is one of the Middleton daughters. I heard something to that effect from the Duchess of Argyll yesterday.”

“Gossip!” Greville shrugged his shoulders. “But, yes, I have no concealments from you. It is the second daughter. I think it will be brought to bear, with your countenance.”

“You will certainly have that!” Sir William said with warm cordiality. “And you have my free leave to assure Lord Middleton that you are my heir.”

Greville wrung his hand with real gratitude.

“But marriage, my dear Hamilton? You are still a young attractive man and I hope, I sincerely hope, to see you yet settled in a happy home of your own.”

“I shall never remarry,” Sir William said gravely and sadly. “You know as well as I the devotion and piety of your aunt. She was a saint on earth and an example of all that is loveliest in woman’s character. It would be impossible to replace her and I shall not try. No, tell Lord Middleton my mind is resolved. As to the debts—but we will consider that later. What are your views for Emma?”

Greville reflected. He really had not yet formulated them even to himself. The concert-room, the opera, the stage, all these ideas had jostled one another in his head, but there was not one that did not call for a training he could not afford. And furthermore, he was very far from willing (in the Middleton interest) to superintend her affairs in any way or seem to preserve the slightest thread of attachment between them. He put this matter to his uncle and they discussed it for a while as a difficulty.

“An Italian training for her voice is what she needs,” said Greville. “It has that kind of pure light brilliance which corresponds exactly to the Italian idea. That would be a settled career for her. But we must not go too fast. You must hear her. You are a far more finished connoisseur in music than I, and perhaps I may overstate her powers. I will have her singing-master here to-morrow and you shall judge. Let me call her back. She has invented a pretty little amusement you will approve, I am sure. She throws herself into uncommon attitudes and thus makes quite elegant little sculpturesques of herself. Whether it could be developed as a paying entertainment—but you shall see.”

Sir William, deeply interested, assented and Emma was recalled from the tinkle of china audible in the distance. She came tripping in, her little dog running after her, the ideal young married niece and elderly uncle’s delight, for that was how she saw herself at the moment. That impression was also instantly conveyed to Sir William. She pulled a low seat beside him and began to talk with those fluty low notes which captivated the listener quite apart from any nonsense or sense she chose to utter. She must hear about Naples, about his great house there, and did he really ever see the Queen? Was she beautiful? Did she wear her crown often? Was Naples as lovely as in Greville’s book of pictures? And, oh, if she could but ever, ever see it!

Sir William was enchanted. He saw no reason why his niece Emma—for so he really must call her—should not come out some day and taste the beauties of that land of the orange and myrtle. He knew not whether she would be the more admired or admiring, probably the former. “For,” said he, “lovely as the Italian women are there is a sameness. The same glorious black eyes flash on you from every countenance. The same rippled raven hair crowns every brow; I may almost say the same finely chiselled features are the rule, so that each must depend for distinction upon her expression and manner. Now you, my dear Emma, have the beauty of their most famous antiques, but the glory of your warm auburn colouring and violet eyes, for so they appear at this moment, must single you out instantly. Added to this, Greville has been dwelling on your accomplishments to me, and these are rare among the Italian belles, who are foolish enough to believe beauty alone can enchain a man for ever and ever.”

“It could only hold a fool,” says she, catching responsive fire from the idea. “Men of culture and learning like you and Greville would demand much, much more. Oh, Sir William, I have tried indeed, but I will try harder still to deserve your approval as well as Greville’s and make myself an accomplished woman.”

So it went on, and Greville sitting a little in the background, watched them. And as he did so, and saw those liquid eyes beaming confidence and affection to his uncle, and Sir William’s elderly orbs lost in their pellucid depths, a thought flashed across his mind so rapid, so overwhelming in its lucidity that he caught his breath audibly, and marvelled he had never considered it before.

Sir William must not marry, for that would be the ruin of his own plans. But Sir William must run the gauntlet of a thousand temptations to the wedding ring. One had but to look at him for that assurance. Furthermore, women’s society was a necessity of his life. The widower of the Palazzo Sessa was certainly not its hermit; no man living more loved gaiety, amusement with thronging interests of every description. And Emma—the exquisite modern-antique—a Pompeian dancer floating up from dark dead ages to charm a modern world; Emma, with her maddening beauty, her poses and attitudes which repeated at command all the statues and pictures which were the delight of Sir William; Emma, with her voice of crystal to enchant him with the bel canto he loved so passionately; and above all, Emma, with her shameful story which set marriage once and for ever out of the question—there was the perfect solution! An unrivalled companion for Sir William’s loneliness, the position for Emma of an old man’s darling on whom every cost, every accomplishment, would be lavished; and for himself freedom—freedom, and the graceful attitude of having conferred a heavy obligation on an attached relative! He sank into deep thought as they murmured on, lost in the interest of this meeting.

Does there seem an unpardonable obliquity in the mind that admits such a consideration? The recorder of the manners and morals of another age does not pretend to compare them with this, nor the materialism of the eighteenth century with the pure idealism and lofty standards of conduct in such matters of the twentieth. Yet Greville had his standard of conscience also, such as it was. It stood aside from the pleasures a gentleman might choose to indulge himself in, but in revenge insisted on certain points to be observed in the way they were transacted. Sir Harry Fetherstonehaugh’s behaviour to Emma was odious in Greville’s eyes. Brutality, coarseness, open infidelity even to a mistress, were things his code could not for a moment admit. Infidelity to a wife—whose cause the world would countenance—was a far lesser matter, though one he would reasonably hope to avoid, provided she pleased him. He had also observed a kindly and correct demeanour toward the little Emma, who was certainly no rightful concern of his. The baby school-bills were regularly settled, nor had he any thought of retreating from that obligation. And lastly, nothing would induce him to abandon Emma without a proper provision for her needs.

If materialism disguised in the wig and spectacles of the ancient maiden Prudence pointed out how much simpler it would be should another, on whose kindness he could rely, undertake her maintenance, was the thought so very unnatural as to warrant any censor arising and calling him the reversed of blessed?

Be that as it may it must be owned that it came as a solvent of all his difficulties, could Emma be brought to view the matter sensibly. The utmost, the most delicate caution, would however be necessary before that could become possible.

Having reached that point—and the two others the degree of confidence when Emma rested her hand timidly on the Ambassador’s knee, drinking in his every word—Greville with his usual method docketed his illumination, parcelled up its brilliance, and placed it in a mental pigeon-hole for easy reference, drew an agreeable smile over his anxieties and asked Sir William if he would like to see the attitudes which Emma had invented one day in Romney’s studio to that master’s entrancement. She ran gaily upstairs to bring her little apparatus.

“She is perfectly fascinating!” Sir William said, with enthusiasm rare in such a finished man of the world. “A most adorable companion. Intelligent, receptive, a perfect listener—”

“Didn’t I tell you?” says Greville with his slow smile. “But don’t spoil her, my dear Hamilton, I entreat. She is the most unspoilt spontaneous creature in the world at present, and I have never given her an indigestion of sugar-plums. Make her self-conscious and the dew is off the rose.”

“Very true, but who can look at her and be wise? With all my soul I pity you, if you must let her go. And for Miss Middleton—a cold, correctly-featured girl with no fire, no sparkle!”

“My poverty and not my will consents,” quoted Greville with a shrug, as Emma came in dressed in a white robe simply caught at the waist and falling in the long straight folds dear to the heart of that lover of the classical, Sir William. The sleeves were short, disclosing a pair of rounded arms; on one was slung a wreath of artificial roses, in one hand a tambourine.

“The perfect Greek! Stand, stand there, just at the door, for a moment!” cried the enraptured connoisseur. “Good God, what an attitude!”

She froze herself instantly into immobility, framed in the doorway, the long folds falling solemnly about her, the face calm as death, a breathing statue. And, as he watched, a faintly dawning smile touched the corners of her perfect lips and spread upwards like light until it reached her eyes, and then, with a sweet cry, she sprang forward, and dropping the roses at her feet flung the arm upward with the tambourine until it rang again and so stood all life and radiance caught on the wave of a dance, each light limb expressing its perfect movement though struck into marble for the instant—a Pompeian dancer, the flower of love’s insolence, the living blossom of a dead civilization.

“I got the pose from the vase the Duchess of Portland bought from you a while ago, and I called it ‘The Pompeian Dancer,’ as there is a certain amount of interest taken in the excavations now. You like it?” says Greville, lowering his voice.

“Divine!” whispered Sir William briefly, impatient of the words and concentrating every sense on the vision.

“Then what would you think if you could but see it as it should be done! Romney has contrived a light in the studio, a strong light that falls on the left, and she stands in an immense picture frame and—”

He saw Sir William was not listening and stopped. His soul was in his eyes. Presently she drooped aside and slid on to the floor and so sat, with chin cupped in soft hand and one long bright lock falling beside her throat, her pensive eyes, lakes of sorrow, following a far, far ship receding in dimmest distance—Ariadne watching the departing Theseus who carried all her joys with him. Was she thinking of her long-ago sailor? Did she catch up past experiences and mould them into present beauty, or was it drawn from some deep well of ancient mysterious pre-natal experience beyond all guessing of herself or others? No one ever knew. She never knew herself. It was; as inevitably as the trees repeat their ancient symphony of bloom, and joy returns from the past with each revolving year.

This was but the beginning of those famous Attitudes which were later to hold the world. But such as they were they struck the gazer dumb. He came to them fresh and saw them complete, unlike Greville who had known the inception and quarrelled with Romney and Emma alike over the set of a fold, the poise of a wrist and so forth. To him it appeared a miracle of finished beauty. He said as much when she had presented the four poses which were all she had as yet designed and, taking her hand, kissed her again on the cheek and thanked her for an afternoon of such pleasure as he had rarely experienced. Greville also thanked her with a cordiality she had missed of late and the returning warmth cheered her like the glow of sunshine. He forgave—he loved her. The way back to his heart was to please this charming uncle who meant ease, freedom from anxiety and all else to her Greville. Indeed it should not be difficult. She would do her utmost, joyfullest best.

They took her to the play that night, and Sir William and she laughed at the comedy of the frolicsome Mrs. Jordan together, while the smiling Greville sat beside them in the box and loaded her with every attention she had missed. He was resolved Sir William should be well aware of the value of this treasure.

Emma slept that night satiate with happiness.

The friendship between Emma and the Ambassador strengthened every day, and to Greville’s secret amusement and satisfaction, he was continually in Edgware Row. London, apart from the antiquarian interests in which he met congenial spirits, was tame and dull in comparison with the delight of sitting with “the fair tea-maker” as he called her, listening to the wonderful voice, suggesting yet more wonderful Attitudes, lounging for hours in Romney’s studio where he made his unwearied studies of Emma in every character that literature or her own marvellous versatility could suggest. He gave an order to Romney for her portrait as a Bacchante that he might not be parted (so he said) from so much beauty when he was compelled to return to Naples.

“Oh, but don’t talk of return, my kind dear friend, I beseech you! What shall we do, Greville and me, when you go? You take the sunlight with you!” said Emma with an expression of pain and fear in those irresistible eyes. “If you did but know, but you can’t, what happiness you have brought with you! All my Greville’s anxieties seem to have vanished away, and we live as care-free as the birds yonder. What don’t I owe you! If I could repay it—ah, if I could!”

“To look at you and enjoy your presence is to be repaid with interest!” said the Ambassador, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. He was approaching the age when it is easier to find pleasures at home than to go abroad to seek them, and there was a warm atmosphere of comfort, of woman’s sweet serviceable ways about him there in which he was apt to purr like a contented cat. She knew his liking by instinct, divined a wish before he uttered it, and with Greville’s guiding taste the surroundings in Edgware Row could not offend even the Hamilton fastidiousness. The little maid-servant, added to the establishment in honour of his frequent coming, would rush radiant to “Mrs. Hart” when his step was in the garden, and well she might, for Sir William’s generous hand was often in his pocket even for the humble Molly Dring, while, as to Emma, she was the shrine of many and costly offerings, and he seldom came without a parcel to be opened with pretty cries of delight, and little shrieks to Greville to come and see what “our dear, dear uncle” has brought. She had offered to be either his “obliged humble servant or his affectionate niece,” and he voted for the niece.

Those were halcyon days for Emma. She had never been so happy. She believed the cause to be that Greville was more contented than she had seen him for many a long day; kinder, less critical, more indulgent. The narrow limit of expense was enlarged for Sir William, the expeditions to the gaieties of London were more frequent, Sir William’s calm good-nature was a mellowing sunshine on all the little asperities which disturbed her. Privately, deep in the recesses of her own heart, she encouraged dreams that Sir William’s affection for her might lead to her marriage with Greville. If he approved, insisted, made the way easy from the money side of affairs, she felt she could not doubt what the end would be. She redoubled every attention to both her men. Every impulse to quick temper was ruled and governed. The sweet eyes which welcomed Sir William or smiled on Greville were dove’s eyes for softness, and to crown all, she topped the part of the perfect housewife with the brilliant accomplishments which astonished Sir William beyond the very bounds of prudence.

Gavin Hamilton, the cousin artist, came often to study and sketch the wonder. He, too, succumbed to her fascinations. She was “a Roman beauty, opulent, luxuriant, dominating, the perfect classic re-animated for the rapture of the eighteenth century,” and his admiration fanned Sir William’s into flame, while Greville watched with silent pleasure, permitting the matter now to take its own safe course, and Emma expanded daily in the atmosphere of warm caressing admiration which was her soul’s delight. She grew more beautiful, more brilliant, every day in that delicious sunshine; responsive as a flower. Endless were her dreams. If Greville married her, why then she might hope he would admit the little Emma as one of the circle. Why not? It could not be spoken, not hinted as yet; but once married, domestic pressure is slow but sure and she could imagine a future when Sir William might invite his nephew and niece with the small adopted daughter to do the honours for him at the Palazzo Sessa whilst he sank gently more and more into the interests of his antiquities and left the world to them. On that stage Emma was certain she could dazzle. The Honourable Mrs. Charles Greville could have no uncertainties she thought, so, when he spoke of going she took his hand and squeezed it nervously with wet eyes and implored him to delay. Indeed, the vast villa with its troops of gabbling servants seemed dull enough after the amenities of Edgware Row. He was in no hurry.

Greville wanted, however, to get him to himself and that seemed impossible with all the interests of Paddington Green.

“I think, my dear Hamilton, it is really time you should see with your own eyes the developments of the Milford estates. As you know, I have been there constantly, but the master’s eye—I think I must have your instructions on the spot. Time flies and you will be off to Naples again before long.”

“Exactly. You’re perfectly in the right. But presently will do. I have told San Severino that he must hear Emma sing and he can’t come until next week. He will be perfectly infatuated. If she should ever visit Naples that will be an unrivalled introduction.”

And when that week was done and Greville again protested gently.

“Yes, my dear boy, certainly. You are wisdom and goodness itself but the Principe di Barberini swears he will not leave England until he has seen her Attitudes, and I am training her for the Proserpina on the plain of Enna. After that—”

After that Greville would take no denial. He must, he would prepare the way still further for the Great Plan, though much was to be entrusted to letters when Sir William was gone. Letters can be considered, slips carefully avoided. Greville much preferred letters.

Sir William would not hear of Emma’s being left alone in Edgware Row while they went down to Wales. Could she not come with them? No, Greville was certain that could not be. They would be moving too quickly for her, would be engrossed with business at Milford.

“And besides, do you not think, my dear Hamilton, that she has looked a little pale of late? Sea bathing acts like a charm with her. I think of Parkgate. You will see her return in even greater beauty; Aphrodite rising from the sea. And I did think, unless you disapprove, of letting her have her little Emma as a companion. One would not be inhuman, and certainly it would give her a very natural pleasure.”

Sir William demurred a little, a very little on that motion. “Whether it were well to strengthen that connection—” he hesitated. “There might in the future be difficulties, if the child—but after all, poor lovely girl, what more natural? Yes, Greville, I approve. You have a kindly heart.”

“Indeed, I would not fail where Emma is concerned,” Greville replied gravely. “I have respect for her innumerable good qualities as well as a strong affection. I am sincerely glad you approve.”

All this was broached to Emma in the most agreeable way. One and all would feel the break-up of the little household, but the Milford business was imperative, and she needed the sea air and there would be letters, constant letters.

She did not dare to kiss Sir William at parting—so she said in a pretty letter to Greville later—but tendered a velvet cheek and received his salute with shy lashes dropped.

Yet, once away, fears returned. The actual distance magnified the class distance between her and the two men. Tall, distinguished, accomplished, moving in a world of which the gates had never opened, could never open to her, it seemed they might at any time be absorbed into their own Paradise never to return. Could they have sent her away as the beginning of the end? Oh, surely no!—and yet—Somehow, Heaven knows how, a waft of Miss Middleton’s name had reached her—the Honourable Miss Middleton! Nothing certain, but disquieting. She grew nervous, self-distrustful. There was no one at Parkgate to give the necessary tribute of admiration to singing and Attitudes, and little Emma, though a charming blue-eyed creature, got on her nerves a little also.

Her letters reflected these moods.