The Soul of Countess Adrian. Rosa Campbell Praed

is a fanciful theory, Miss Brett," said Lendon. "Don't you think that it may be a morbid one?"

      "Morbid! Oh! morbid!" she repeated with fine scorn. "I hate that word morbid. It is such a cant phrase. I suppose that all the people of genius, in the world or out of it, who ever moved souls to enthusiasm were told at some time or other, by some wise person or other, that they were—morbid. Pray Heaven give me morbidness! That is all I say."

      "No! no!" he exclaimed; "I won't say Amen to that impious supplication."

      She laughed. "Well," she said, "I think I shall go down to my cabin, for I am feeling a little shivery; and if you will take me as far as the companion, I shall be grateful."

      He gave her his arm, and took charge of her rug and various other belongings.

      "But you will let me convince you, some time soon, that I meant no disrespect to genius by refusing to allow that it is morbid?"

      She nodded and laughed again. "You don't mean it; you don't mean it!" she cried. "You mean just what I mean, only you call it by another name. You are just as bad as the worst of them, if you like to put it in that way. You're just as open to—to influences and impulses and misdirected enthusiasms as the people you pretend to despise. Why, you are utterly morbid, or you could never have painted 'The Pool of Melancholy.’"

      "There's something in that," said Lendon to himself, as he paced the deck, after he had seen her to the door of her cabin. "The curse of the artist temperament is on me as fatally almost as upon Miss Beatrice Brett herself."

      He watched for the young actress for the rest of the day, but she did not reappear. Nor was she on deck at promenade time the following morning. It irked him to remember that in forty-eight hours they were due at Southampton. He put artfully veiled questions to his communicative neighbour at table d'hote; and having set him on the trail, very soon elicited through him the information that Miss Brett had caught a slight cold, and was not likely to show herself above while the weather continued stormy. It had come on to blow again, and Lendon began to think the Fates were against any practical outcome from his already strong interest in the young actress.

      He found her at last, however, in the reading-room, where she was sitting very becomingly, muffled in furs and with a book in her hand. She smiled and bowed, and, in answer to his inquiries, told him she was better, and that she had caught cold, and was suffering from hoarseness. "And you know," she added, "an actress is bound to be careful of her voice, for it is the best part of her stock in trade."

      She asked him when they should get in, and he told her that it would be late that night, and ventured to inquire whether any one would meet her, and if he might presume on his acquaintanceship with her friend Mrs. Walcot Valbry, and offer his help in the Custom Rouse, which, as he put it, was an awkward business for a lady who was not very strong.

      "Oh," she answered, "my people will be there to meet me, and they will arrange everything; but thank you all the same."

      "I hope," he said, a little shyly, "that I may look forward to being presented to Professor Flail."

      "Why, certainly," she answered: "if you know Mrs. Walcot Valbry, you will see a great deal of my uncle. She has a high opinion of the Professor and of his discovery."

      "Don't think me very ignorant," said Lendon, "but will you tell me what is your uncle's particular field of scientific investigation. I don't go in much for that sort of thing," he went on apologetically; "I think we painters are, of all people, the narrowest in our sympathies and interests; we shut ourselves up in our studios, or potter along through æsthetic by-ways, or else cut ourselves off from everything, as I have done this last year or so, and go of to the wilds in search of a new sensation."

      She looked at him a little wistfully. "I should have thought," she said, "that you would have found plenty of sensations in London."

      He laughed. "Well, but your uncle, the Professor, what is his line?"

      "Magnetic-Dynamics," she answered seriously, and then suddenly laughed like a child at his puzzled look. "Oh, you will find out all about it soon enough. It is something very important, I assure you."

      "I have no doubt of that. May I call upon you in London? and perhaps," he went on eagerly, "if you care for pictures and sights, and that sort of thing, I have friends who would be delighted—and I should like to show you my studio when it is in order again, if you would let me."

      "I am going to be dreadfully hard at work," she answered; "but you are very kind, and, if there's time, I should like it very much. I should like in any case to see your studio."

      He was obliged to be content with this sort of indefinite promise; and just then the captain came up and began talking to Miss Brett in German—a language which she appeared to speak fluently. He had no further conversation with her before the arrival at Southampton, and in the hurry and confusion of landing he lost sight of her, and to his infinite regret had not even the satisfaction of bidding her good-by.

      II. The Improvisatrice

      CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

      The Improvisatrice.

      On the journey from Southampton to London, during which the image of the young actress obtruded itself somewhat disquietingly, Lendon assured himself that the serious business of home-coming and resettling himself in his ordinary routine of occupation would leave him but little leisure for romantic speculations about Miss Beatrice Brett. He was a little ashamed of the sudden interest with which she had inspired him, for he had been indulging of late in a lofty, philosophic indifference, not to say scorn of the charms of womanhood, and had made up his mind that for him emotional disturbance was a matter of the past. He had acted out his drama, had lived through his disillusionment, as he fancied, and it was humiliating to find himself as susceptible still to the light of a pair of bright eyes as ever he had been in the old days before the first had turned to ashes, and he had gone madly off to the New World to heal his heart's wound. It was this feeling which made him determine that he would not think of her, would not make any special effort to find out her whereabouts, would not call upon Mrs. Walcot Valbry, would not search the papers for any mention of the Professor and his discovery in magnetic-dynamics (whatever that might mean), or of the trumpet praises which pique curiosity as to any forthcoming débutante on the London stage. As a matter of fact, he did think a good deal about her, nevertheless, and he never saw the turn of a particularly slender throat, the shape of an unusually delicate form, or the back of a golden head in front of him in a theatre-stall or in the street, without a sudden inward flutter and desperate, if momentary, wonderment whether at last kindly chance were about to throw them together. He never did come across her, however, nor had he any means of finding out where she lived. He plunged into business and pleasure, and tried to forget her. One morning it gave him an odd thrill to receive a note from her, enclosing a card of invitation from Mrs. Walcot Valbry, that American lady of whom they had spoken, and who was, indeed, well known in the upper Bohemia of London. The inscription on the card ran—

      "Mrs. Walcot Valbry

       At home

       Wednesday, February 20th, at 9.30.

      "Fleetwood House, West Kensington.

      To meet Professor Villa (Inventor of the Viall-Motor) and Miss Beatrice Brett (the celebrated American 'Improvisatrice')."

      The note said—

      Dear Mr. Lendon,

      Do come; though I warn you that I am not inclined to do the 'Improvisatrice,' consciously at any rate, for any one; and I am not celebrated yet. But, as I told you, I mean to be by-and-by. We have gotten charming rooms, and I am preparing for my London début, and sometimes I don't seem to know which is me and which is—— Never mind; I'll explain, perhaps, some day.

      Mrs.