it was suggested to lucy before she had been long in kingsbury crescent that she should take some exercise. for the first week she had hardly been out of the house; but this was attributed to her sorrow. then she had accompanied her aunt for a few days during the half-hour’s marketing which took place every morning, but in this there had been no sympathy. lucy would not interest herself in the shoulder of mutton which must be of just such a weight as to last conveniently for two days — twelve pounds — of which, it was explained to her, more than one-half was intended for the two servants, because there was always a more lavish consumption in the kitchen than in the parlour. lucy would not appreciate the fact that eggs at a penny a piece, whatever they might be, must be used for puddings, as eggs with even a reputation of freshness cost two-pence. aunt dosett, beyond this, never left the house on week-days except for a few calls which were made perhaps once a month, on which occasion the sunday gloves and the sunday silk dress were used. on sunday they all went to church. but this was not enough for exercise, and as lucy was becoming pale she was recommended to take to walking in kensington gardens.

it is generally understood that there are raging lions about the metropolis, who would certainly eat up young ladies whole if young ladies were to walk about the streets or even about the parks by themselves. there is, however, beginning to be some vacillation as to the received belief on this subject as regards london. in large continental towns, such as paris and vienna, young ladies would be devoured certainly. such, at least, is the creed. in new york and washington there are supposed to be no lions, so that young ladies go about free as air. in london there is a rising doubt, under which before long, probably, the lions will succumb altogether. mrs dosett did believe somewhat in lions, but she believed also in exercise. and she was aware that the lions eat up chiefly rich people. young ladies who must go about without mothers, brothers, uncles, carriages, or attendants of any sort, are not often eaten or even roared at. it is the dainty darlings for whom the roarings have to be feared. mrs dosett, aware that daintiness was no longer within the reach of her and hers, did assent to these walkings in kensington gardens. at some hour in the afternoon lucy would walk from the house by herself, and within a quarter of an hour would find herself on the broad gravel path which leads down to the round pond. from thence she would go by the back of the albert memorial, and then across by the serpentine and return to the same gate, never leaving kensington gardens. aunt dosett had expressed some old-fashioned idea that lions were more likely to roar in hyde park than within the comparatively retired purlieus of kensington.

now the reader must be taken back for a few moments to the bijou, as the bijou was before either the artist or his wife had died. in those days there had been a frequent concourse of people in the artist’s house. society there had not consisted chiefly of eating and drinking. men and women would come in and out as though really for a purpose of talking. there would be three or four constantly with dormer in his studio, helping him but little perhaps in the real furtherance of his work, though discussing art subjects in a manner calculated to keep alive art-feeling among them. a novelist or two of a morning might perhaps aid me in my general pursuit, but would, i think, interfere with the actual tally of pages. egbert dormer did not turn out from his hand so much work as some men that i know, but he was overflowing with art up to his ears — and with tobacco, so that, upon the whole, the bijou was a pleasant rendezvous.

there had come there of late, quite of late, a young sculptor, named isadore hamel. hamel was an englishman, who, however, had been carried very early to rome and had been bred there. of his mother question never was made, but his father had been well known as an english sculptor resident at rome. the elder hamel had been a man of mark, who had a fine suite of rooms in the city and a villa on one of the lakes, but who never came to england. english connections were, he said, to him abominable, by which he perhaps meant that the restrictions of decent life were not to his taste. but his busts came, and his groups in marble, and now and again some great work for some public decoration: so that money was plentiful with him, and he was a man of note. it must be acknowledged of him that he spared nothing in bringing up his son, giving him such education as might best suit his future career as an artist, and that money was always forthcoming for the lad’s wants and fantasies.

then young hamel also became a sculptor of much promise; but early in life differed from his father on certain subjects of importance. the father was wedded to rome and to italy. isadore gradually expressed an opinion that the nearer a man was to his market the better for him, that all that art could do for a man in rome was as nothing to the position which a great artist might make for himself in london — that, in fact, an englishman had better be an englishman. at twenty-six he succeeded in his attempt, and became known as a young sculptor with a workshop at brompton. he became known to many both by his work and his acquirements; but it may not be surprising that after a year he was still unable to live, as he had been taught to live, without drawing upon his father. then his father threw his failure in his teeth, not refusing him money indeed, but making the receipt of it unpleasant to him.

at no house had isadore hamel been made so welcome as at dormer’s. there was a sympathy between them both on that great question of art, whether to an artist his art should be a matter to him of more importance than all the world besides. so said dormer — who simply died because his wife died, who could not have touched his brush if one of his girls had been suffering, who, with all his genius, was but a fainéant workman. his art more than all the world to him! no, not to him. perhaps here and again to some enthusiast, and him hardly removed from madness! where is the painter who shall paint a picture after his soul’s longing though he shall get not a penny for it — though he shall starve as he put his last touch to it, when he knows that by drawing some duchess of the day he shall in a fortnight earn a ducal price? shall a wife and child be less dear to him than to a lawyer — or to a shoemaker, or the very craving of his hunger less obdurate? a man’s self, and what he has within him and his belongings, with his outlook for this and other worlds — let that be the first, and the work, noble or otherwise, be the second. to be honest is greater than to have painted the san sisto, or to have chiselled the apollo, to have assisted in making others honest — infinitely greater. all of which were discussed at great length at the bijou, and the bijouites always sided with the master of the house. to an artist, said dormer, let his art be everything — above wife and children, above money, above health, above even character. then he would put out his hand with his jewelled finger, and stretch forth his velvet-clad arm, and soon after lead his friend away to the little dinner at which no luxury had been spared. but young hamel agreed with the sermons, and not the less because lucy dormer had sat by and listened to them with rapt attention.

not a word of love had been spoken to her by the sculptor when her mother died, but there had been glances and little feelings of which each was half conscious. it is so hard for a young man to speak of love, if there be real love — so impossible that a girl should do so! not a word had been spoken, but each had thought that the other must have known. to lucy a word had been spoken by her mother — “do not think too much of him till you know,” the mother had said — not quite prudently. “oh, no! i will think of him not at all,” lucy had replied. and she had thought of him day and night. “i wonder why mr hamel is so different with you?” ayala had said to her sister. “i am sure he is not different with me”, lucy had replied. then ayala had shaken her full locks and smiled.

things came quickly after that. mrs dormer had sickened and died. there was no time then for thinking of that handsome brow, of that short jet black hair, of those eyes so full of fire and thoughtfulness, of that perfect mouth, and the deep but yet soft voice. still even in her sorrow this new god of her idolatry was not altogether forgotten. it was told to her that he had been summoned off to rome by his father, and she wondered whether he was to find his home at rome for ever. then her father was ill, and in his illness hamel came to say one word of farewell before he started.

“you find me crushed to the ground,” the painter said. something the young man whispered as to the consolation which time would bring. “not to me,” said dormer. it is as though one had lost his eyes. one cannot see without his eyes.” it was true of him. his light had been put out.

then, on the landing at the top of the stairs, there had been one word between lucy and the sculptor. “i ought not to have intruded on you perhaps,” he said; “but after so much kindness i could hardly go without a word.”

“i am sure he will be glad that you have come.”

“and you?”

“i am glad too — so that i may say goodbye.” then she put out her hand, and he held it for a moment as he looked into her eyes. there was not a word more, but it seemed to lucy as though there had been so many words.

things went on quickly. egbert dormer died, and lucy was taken away to kingsbury crescent. when once ayala had spoken about mr hamel, lucy had silenced her. any allusion to the idea of love wounded her, as though it was too impossible for dreams, too holy for words. how should there be words about a lover when father and mother were both dead? he had gone to his old and natural home. he had gone, and of course he would not return. to ayala, when she came up to london early in november, to ayala, who was going to rome, where isadore hamel now was, isadore hamel’s name was not mentioned. but through the long mornings of her life, through the long evenings, through the long nights, she still thought of him — she could not keep herself from thinking. to a girl whose life is full of delights her lover need not be so very much — need not, at least, be everything. though he be a lover to be loved at all points, her friends will be something, her dancing, her horse, her theatre-going, her brothers and sisters, even her father and mother. but lucy had nothing. the vision of isadore hamel had passed across her life, and had left with her the only possession that she had. it need hardly be said that she never alluded to that possession at kingsbury crescent. it was not a possession from which any enjoyment could come except that of thinking of it. he had passed away from her, and there was no point of life at which he could come across her again. there was no longer that half-joint studio. if it had been her lot to be as was ayala, she then would have been taken to rome. then again he would have looked into her eyes. and taken her hand in his. then perhaps —. but now, even though he were to come back to london, he would know nothing of her haunts. even in that case nothing would bring them together. as the idea was crossing her mind — as it did cross it so frequently — she saw him turning from the path on which she was walking, making his way towards the steps of the memorial.

though she saw no more than his back she was sure that it was isadore hamel. for a moment there was an impulse on her to run after him and to call his name. it was then early in january, and she was taking her daily walk through kensington gardens. she had walked there daily now for the last two months and had never spoken a word or been addressed — had never seen a face that she had recognised. it had seemed to her that she had not an acquaintance in the world except uncle reg and aunt dosett. and now, almost within reach of her hand, was the one being in all the world whom she most longed to see. she did stand and the word was formed within her lips; but she could not speak it. then came the thought that she would run after him, but the thought was expelled quickly. though she might lose him again and for ever she could not do that. she stood almost gasping till he was out of sight, and then she passed on upon her usual round.

she never omitted her walks after that, and always paused a moment as the path turned away to the memorial. it was not that she thought that she might meet him there — there rather than elsewhere — but there is present to us often an idea that when some object has passed from us that we have desired then it may be seen again. day after day, and week after week, she did not see him. during this time there came letters from ayala, saying that their return to england was postponed till the first week in february — that she would certainly see lucy in february — that she was not going to be hurried through london in half an hour because her aunt wished it; and that she would do as she pleased as to visiting her sister. then there was a word or two about tom — “oh, tom — that idiot tom!” and another word or two about augusta. “augusta is worse than ever. we have not spoken to each other for the last day or two.” this came but a day or two before the intended return of the tringles.

no actual day had been fixed. but on the day before that on which lucy thought it probable that the tringles might return to town she was again walking in the gardens. having put two and two together, as people do, she felt sure that the travellers could not be away more than a day or two longer. her mind was much intent upon ayala, feeling that the imprudent girl was subjecting herself to great danger, knowing that it was wrong that she and augusta should be together in the house without speaking — thinking of her sister’s perils — when, of a sudden, hamel was close before her! there was no question of calling to him now — no question of an attempt to see him face to face. she had been wandering along the path with eyes fixed upon the ground, when her name was sharply called, and they two were close to each other. hamel had a friend with him, and it seemed to lucy at once, that she could only bow to him, only mutter something, and then pass on. how can a girl stand and speak to a gentleman in public, especially when that gentleman has a friend with him? she tried to look pleasant, bowed, smiled, muttered something, and was passing on. but he was not minded to lose her thus immediately. “miss dormer,” he said, i have seen your sister at rome. may i not say a word about her?”

why should he not say a word about ayala? in a minute he had left his friend, and was walking back along the path with lucy. there was not much that he had to say about ayala. he had seen ayala and the tringles, and did manage to let it escape him that lady tringle had not been very gracious to himself when once, in public, he had claimed acquaintance with ayala. but at that he simply smiled. then he had asked of lucy where she lived. “with my uncle, mr dosett,” said lucy, “at kingsbury crescent.” then, when he asked whether he might call, lucy, with many blushes, had said that her aunt did not receive many visitors — that her uncle’s house was different from what her father’s had been.

“shall i not see you at all, then?” he asked.

she did not like to ask him after his own purposes of life, whether he was now a resident in london, or whether he intended to return to rome. she was covered with bashfulness, and dreaded to seem even to be interested in his affairs. “oh, yes,” she said,; perhaps we may meet some day.”

“here?” he asked.

“oh, no; not here! it was only an accident.” as she said this she determined that she must walk no more in kensington gardens. it would be dreadful, indeed, were he to imagine that she would consent to make an appointment with him. it immediately occurred to her that the lions were about, and that she must shut herself up.

“i have thought of you every day since i have been back,” he said, “and i did not know where to hear of you. now that we have met am i to lose you again?” lose her! what did he mean by losing her? she, too, had found a friend — she who had been so friendless! would it not be dreadful to her, also, to lose him? “is there no place where i may ask of you?”

“when ayala is back, and they are in town, perhaps i shall sometimes be at lady tringle’s,” said lucy, resolved that she would not tell him of her immediate abode. this was, at any rate, a certain address from where he might commence further inquiries, should he wish to make inquiry; and as such he accepted it. “i think i had better go now,” said lucy, trembling at the apparent impropriety of her present conversation.

he knew that it was intended that he should leave her, and he went. “i hope i have not offended you in coming so far.”

“oh, no.” then again she gave him her hand and again there was the same look as he took his leave.

when she got home, which was before the dusk, having resolved that she must, at any rate, tell her aunt that she had met a friend, she found that her uncle had returned from his office. this was a most unusual occurrence. her uncle, she knew, left somerset house exactly at half past four, and always took an hour and a quarter for his walk. she had never seen him in kingsbury crescent till a quarter before six. “i have got letters from rome,” he said, in a solemn voice.

“from ayala?”

“one from ayala, for you. it is here. and i have had one from my sister, also; and one, in the course of the day, from your uncle in lombard street. you had better read them!” there was something terribly tragic in uncle dosett’s voice as he spoke.

and so must the reader read the letters; but they must be delayed for a few chapters.