He whispered adoration to her, breathing
her name again and again, crowning it, as with a wreath, with those
old, familiar adjectives that had so lately become intense with new
meaning for him; he forgot Barty, forgot even her portrait, as he
thought of herself.
Barty came over to him; the two young men, with their common secret,
suspected by neither, a secret that for one was a living ecstasy, and
for the other an impossible ideal, stood silent, full of their own
thoughts. Barty spoke first.
"It's a wonder to me! I didn't think you could paint like that, Larry!
I didn't think anyone could!"
"Well, no more I can, really. This was a sort of a miracle and it
painted itself."
The same impulse moved them both, and they returned to the easel on
which was the picture, but with a quick movement Larry flung the
drapery over the frame again and hid the picture.
"Didn't you say you had a message for me from your father?"
Barty accepted the change of subject with his accustomed resignation
to Larry's moods.
"I have. He said he'd be at home to-morrow afternoon--that's
Sunday--and he wanted to see you on very special business."
"Do you know what about?" Larry asked, without interest, while he
arranged the many-coloured silken drapery in effective folds over the
picture.
"I believe old Prendergast's dying."
Barty hesitated; then, remembering that his father had not enjoined
secrecy, he rushed into his subject.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313