The painter, with an amused smile, asked, "Won't you come for a look at
it, old man?"
The other returned gruffly, "Thanks; but I don't think I care to risk it."
The artist laughed. "But Miss Andres wants you to come. She sent me to
fetch you."
Conrad Lagrange turned his peculiar, baffling eyes upon the young man.
"Does _she_ like it?"
"She seems to."
"If she _seems_ to, she does," retorted the other, rising. "And that's
different."
When the novelist, with his three friends, stood before the easel, he was
silent for so long that the girl said anxiously, "I--I thought you would
like it, Mr. Lagrange."
They saw the strange man's eyes fill with tears as he answered, in the
gentle tones that always marked his words to her, "Like it? My dear child,
how could I help liking it? It is you--you!" To the artist, he added, "It
is great work, my boy, great! I--I wish your mother could have seen it. It
is like her--as I knew her. You have done well." He turned, with gentle
courtesy, to Myra Willard; "And you? What is your verdict, Miss Willard?"
With her arm around the beautiful original of the portrait, the woman with
the disfigured face answered, "I think, sir, that I, better than any one
in all the world, know how good, how true, it is.
Pages:
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335