She was walking on the further side of Rosamond Pond when first I caught sight of her, and when she reached the Bridge, she came deliberately to a halt. There is no other way across the Pond save by the Bridge, so Mr. Betterton could not have escaped the meeting even if he would. Seeing the Lady, he raised his hat and made a deep bow of respectful salutation. He then crossed the Bridge and made as if he would pass by, but she held her Ground, in the very centre of the Path, and when he was quite near her, she said abruptly:

"Mr. Betterton, I desire a word with you."

He came at once to a halt, and replied with perfect deference:

"I await your Ladyship's commands."

2

I was for hurrying away, thinking that my Presence would be irksome both to the Lady and to my Friend; but an unmistakable pressure of Mr. Betterton's hand on my arm caused me to stay where I was. As for the Lady, she appeared not to care whether I stayed or went, for immediately she retorted:

"My commands, Sir Actor? They are, that you at once and completely do Reparation for the wrong which you are trying to do to an innocent Man."

She looked proud and commanding as a Queen, looking through the veil of her lashes at Mr. Betterton as if he were a supplicating Slave rather than the great Artist whom cultured Europe delighted to honour. Never did I admire my Friend so much as I did then. His self-possession was perfect: his attitude just the right balance 'twixt deference due to a beautiful Woman and the self-assurance which comes of conscious Worth. He looked splendid, too—dressed in the latest fashion and with unerring taste. The fantastic cut of his modish clothes became his artistic Personality to perfection: the soft shade of mulberry of which his coat was fashioned made an harmonious note of colour in the soft grey mist of this late winter's morning. The lace at his throat and wrists was of unspeakable value, filmy and gossamer-like in texture as a cobweb; and in his cravat glittered a diamond, a priceless gift to the great English Artist from the King of France.

Indeed, the Lady Barbara Wychwoode might look the world-famous Actor up and down with well-studied superciliousness; she might issue her commands to him as if she were his royal Mistress and he but a Menial set there to obey her behest; but, whatever she did, she could not dwarf his Personality. He had become too great for disdain or sneers ever to touch him again; and the shafts of scorn aimed at him by those who would set mere Birth above the claims of Genius, would only find their points broken or blunted against the impenetrable armour of his Glory and his Fame.

For the nonce, I think that he was ready enough to parley with the Lady Barbara. He had not to my knowledge spoken with her since that never forgotten day last September; and I, not understanding the complex workings of an Artist's heart, knew not if his Love for her had outlived the crying outrage, or had since then turned to Hate.