The lightning has not smitten him, nor the waters drowned him, nor has any stranger vessel borne him to other shores. He is only battered, and shattered, and weary with the struggle; has lost, perhaps, all he cared for, and is permanently disabled for further travelling. Gertrude smiled to herself as she pursued the little metaphor, then, rising, walked across the room to the mirror which hung above the mantelpiece. As her eye fell on her own reflection she remembered Lucy Snowe's words—
"I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning dress, a faded, hollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle.... I still felt life at life's sources."
That was the worst of it; one was so terribly vital. Inconceivable as it seemed, she knew that one day she would be up again, fighting the old fight, not only for existence, but for happiness itself. She was only twenty-five when all was said; much lay, indeed, behind her, but there was still the greater part of her life to be lived.
She started a little as the handle of the door turned, and Mrs. Maryon announced Lord Watergate. She gave him her hand with a little smile: "Have you been in the studio?" she said, as they both seated themselves.
"Yes; Jermyn opened the door himself, and insisted on my coming in, though, to tell you the truth, I should have hesitated about entering had I had any choice in the matter—which I hadn't."
"Lucy has picked up wonderfully, hasn't she?"
"She looks her old self already. Jermyn tells me they are to be married almost immediately."
"Yes. I suppose they told you also that Lucy is going to carry on the business afterwards."
"In the old place?"
"No. We have got rid of the rest of the lease, and they propose moving into some place where studios for both of them can be arranged."