THE TONE OF TIME
been dead for years; the sole humiliation, as I have called it, that he was to know had come to him in that form. The canvas held and cherished him, in any case, as it only holds the dead. She had suffered from him, it came to me, the worst that a woman can suffer, and the wound he had dealt her, though hidden, had never effectually healed. It had bled again while she worked. Yet when she at last reappeared there was but one thing to say. "The beauty, heaven knows, I see. But I don't see what you call the infamy."
She gave him a last look—again she turned away. "Oh, he was like that."
"Well, whatever he was like," I remember replying, "I wonder you can bear to part with him. Isn't it better to let her see the picture first here?"
As to this she doubted. "I don't think I want her to come."
I wondered. "You continue to object so to meet her?"
"What good will it do? It's quite impossible I should alter him for her."
"Oh, she won't want that!" I laughed. "She'll adore him as he is."
"Are you quite sure of your idea?"
"That he's to figure as Mr. Bridgenorth? Well, if I hadn't been from the first, my dear lady, I should be now. Fancy, with the chance, her not jumping at him! Yes, he'll figure as Mr. Bridgenorth."
"Mr. Bridgenorth!" she echoed, making the sound, with her small, cold laugh, grotesquely poor for him. He might really have been a prince, and I wondered if he hadn't been. She had, at all events, a new notion. "Do you mind my having it taken to your place and letting her come to see it there?" Which—as I immediately embraced her proposal, deferring to her reasons, whatever they were—was what was speedily arranged.
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