He rose with difficulty, and, feeling in the pocket of his coat which hung near, produced two photographs in a folding frame which he offered to Gilead.
“Look, sir,” he said hoarsely, “and consider the measure of retribution exacted for one moment of unthinking vanity. Yet surely—the views we had exchanged had been in themselves so fine, so shapely, had been uttered in so exalted a strain of poetry—the little imposition, amounting to no more than a harmless anachronism, might have been thought natural and excusable? And in succumbing to the temptation I had no thought but to resume, as quickly and as effectually as possible, the contours of the photograph. Alas! in compounding with one’s conscience Destiny always chooses the inconvenient moment for exposure. Judge of my feelings when I tell you that circumstances ruled, all in one instant, that the too-long-delayed meeting between us should be fixed, at last and inevitably, for the middle of next week!”
He stood by, quite sagging with dejection, while Gilead, with a profound face, examined the pictures. That of the lady presented a half-length in book-muslin, a little posée, the visage a little spare, but sentimental and interesting. Turning to the other, he found it hard to repress a smile. It had certainly been taken, by inference, years ago. Mr Bundy appeared in it as a comparatively slim gentleman of sedate, but not mature age, with queer clownish hair and a relatively distinguished mien. Gravely he returned the articles to their owner.
“You have honoured me, sir,” he said, “with your confidence. My advice, without presumption, is at your service.”
“I ask it; I entreat it,” cried Mr Bundy.
“Then, sir,” said Gilead, “believe me that vanity never yet cured vanity, but that truth is the universal panacea. You, and presumably the lady, genuinely desire this union?”
“A union on her part,” said the sufferer miserably, “with the subject of the photograph? I believe I can answer for her so far. As for myself, should I take such steps otherwise to make it possible? You comprehend now, Mr Balm, my position; my desperate essay, on my doctor’s advice, to abate—at a moment’s notice, so to speak—my figure; the torture of conscience which drove me to seek, in the distraction of cheerful companionship, some forgetfulness of the purpose with which I wrought, and the deceit which had necessitated it.”
“You might, with as much hope of success,” said Gilead, “seek to reduce an egg by boiling.” He spoke with a certain sternness. “No, Mr Bundy,” he said, “the proportions of the picture will not be yours within a week. How can you expect it when—I must speak plainly—you pamper your stomach with one hand while you reduce it with the other?”
Mr Bundy, with a self-conscious look, glanced down at the luncheon-basket.
“I am afraid,” he murmured, “that you have made a poor meal.”