“And you are mine at last, darling!” said Mr. Weems, as he pushed his chair up close to Leonie’s and took her hand in his.
In reply she nestled her head up against his shoulder, and her thoughts went out dreamily over the past. Old Mr. Baxter and her two other lovers had made precisely the same remark to her under similar circumstances, and she had responded to them in the same manner. Life is an endless round of repetitions.
“Sweet face!” said Mr. Weems, patting it tenderly, as if he were a trifle uncertain of the permanent nature of the color. “Did you know, darling, that I put your face in one of my recent pictures?”
“Oh, Julius! Did you?”
“Yes, dear, I gave it to my full length of St. Ethelberta, by Rubens.”
“Is it a good likeness?”
“I think it is. But,” said Mr. Weems thoughtfully, “it didn’t sell! That is, I mean, no person of really good taste has inspected it yet.”
“And you painted it because you loved me, did you?”
“Oh, yes! Certainly! Of course!”
“How fortunate it was that I could return your love, wasn’t it? Julius, what would you have done if I had refused you?”