THE BETTER SORT
"Just for that—for the tone of time. And, except that it's to hang over her chimney, she didn't tell me. I've only my idea that it's to represent, to symbolise, as it were, her husband, who's not alive and who perhaps never was. This is exactly what will give you a free hand."
"With nothing to go by—no photographs or other portraits?"
"Nothing."
"She only proposes to describe him?"
"Not even; she wants the picture itself to do that. Her only condition is that he be a très-bel homme."
She had begun at last, a little thoughtfully, to remove her apron. "Is she French?"
"I don't know. I give it up. She calls herself Mrs. Bridgenorth."
Mary wondered. "Connais pas! I never heard of her."
"You wouldn't."
"You mean it's not her real name?"
I hesitated. "I mean that she's a very downright fact, full of the implication that she'll pay a downright price. It's clear to me that you can ask what you like; and it's therefore a chance that I can't consent to your missing." My friend gave no sign either way, and I told my story. "She's a woman of fifty, perhaps of more, who has been pretty, and who still presents herself, with her grey hair a good deal powdered, as I judge, to carry it off, extraordinarily well. She was a little frightened and a little free; the latter because of the former. But she did uncommonly well, I thought, considering the oddity of her wish. This oddity she quite admits; she began indeed by insisting on it so in advance that I found myself expecting I didn't know what. She broke at moments into French, which was perfect, but no better than her English, which isn't vulgar; not more at least than that of
70
