[To himself.] Great Heavens! If by any awful freak of fate this poor creature is a victim of Renshaw’s—and she at this moment standing beside him——! What a fool I am to think of no man but Renshaw!
Janet Preece.
Don’t ask me to describe him in words, sir,—I can’t, I can’t. But I’ve taught myself to draw his face faithfully. I’m not boasting—I can’t draw anything else because I see nothing else. Give me some paper I can sketch upon, and a pencil.
[Hugh hands her paper and pencil, and watches while she sketches.]
Hugh Murray.
[To himself.] If the face she sketches should bear any resemblance to his, what could I do, what could I do?
Janet Preece.
[To herself.] That’s with his mocking look as I last saw him. He is always mocking me now.
Hugh Murray.