The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

secret, Marian⁠—you said so yourself. The name was all I kept from him, and he has discovered it.” I heard her, but I could say nothing. Her last words had killed the little hope that still lived in me. “It happened at Rome,” she went on, as wearily calm and cold as ever. “We were at a little party given to the English by some friends of Sir Percival’s⁠— Mr. and Mrs. Markland. Mrs. Markland had the reputation of sketching very beautifully, and some of the guests prevailed on her to show us her drawings. We all admired them, but something I said attracted her attention particularly to me. ‘Surely you draw yourself?’ she asked. ‘I used to draw a little once,’ I answered, ‘but I have given it up.’ ‘If you have once drawn,’ she said, ‘you may take to it again one of these days, and if you do, I wish you would let me recommend you a master.’ I said nothing⁠—you know why, Marian⁠—and tried to change the conversation. But Mrs. Markland persisted. ‘I have had all sorts of teachers,’ she went on, ‘but the best of all, the most intelligent and the most attentive, was a Mr. Hartright. If you ever take up your drawing again, do try him as a master. He is a young man⁠—modest and gentlemanlike⁠—I am sure you will like him.’ Think of those words being spoken to me publicly, in the presence of strangers⁠—strangers who had been invited to meet the bride and bridegroom! I did all I could to control myself⁠—I said nothing, and looked down close at the drawings. When I ventured to raise my head again, my eyes and my husband’s eyes met, and I knew, by his look, that my face had betrayed me. ‘We will see about Mr. Hartright,’ he said, looking at me all the time, ‘when we get back to England. I agree with you, Mrs. Markland⁠—I