THE TONE OF TIME
"Ah, you do portraits yourself!"
"Yes, and you know how. My trick won't serve for this. What's wanted is a pretty picture."
"Then of whom?"
"Of nobody. That is of anybody. Anybody you like."
She naturally wondered. "Do you mean I'm myself to choose my sitter?"
"Well, the oddity is that there is to be no sitter."
"Whom then is the picture to represent?"
"Why, a handsome, distinguished, agreeable man, of not more than forty, clean-shaven, thoroughly well-dressed, and a perfect gentleman."
She continued to stare. "And I'm to find him myself?"
I laughed at the term she used. "Yes, as you 'find' the canvas, the colours and the frame." After which I immediately explained. "I've just had the rummest visit, the effect of which was to make me think of you. A lady, unknown to me and unintroduced, turned up at my place at three o'clock. She had come straight, she let me know, without preliminaries, on account of one's high reputation—the usual thing—and of her having admired one's work. Of course I instantly saw—I mean I saw it as soon as she named her affair—that she hadn't understood my work at all. What am I good for in the world but just the impression of the given, the presented case? I can do but the face I see."
"And do you think I can do the face I don't?"
"No, but you see so many more. You see them in fancy and memory, and they've come out, for you, from all the museums you've haunted and all the great things you've studied. I know you'll be able to see the one my visitor wants and to give it—what's the crux of the business—the tone of time."
She turned the question over. "What does she want it for?"
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