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 help you to understand." It did not seem at all strange then that she talked to him so openly, but it was very wonderful to remember in later days. Sacheverell listened with almost painful interest. Her story with its suggestion of a tragedy in little was sad enough; what he feared was her mistaken confidence in her own ability seemed to him even sadder. Genius is so rare, and ambition is so common.

"I should like to see some of your work," he said, at last.

"If you can call at my studio to-morrow," said Anna, laughing, "I will show you my masterpiece!"

He did not go immediately, however, but stayed an hour longer. They sat in the window of Mrs. Grimmage's drawing-room, and talked very happily, if inconsequently, on many subjects, from Browning and Bach to Mazzini and Plato. They were very cultured, indeed.

"Did you see that woman who passed just now?" said Anna, suddenly.

"Yes." "She had beautiful hair—Venetian red."

"I saw it."

She looked at him with something like gratitude. The artistic sympathy is very subtle—terribly irresistible. "How lovely," she said, "to be with somebody who does see things. I could tell you the whole history of that woman," she went on, "just from her walk. She does not care for that tramp—he doesn't understand her—he doesn't even know that her hair is magnificent. But she wants to Belong to somebody."