“There is one part of my life that was a tremendous mistake. I sought to act with regard for a misconceived duty and kindness, and I only inflicted infinite pain. I want you to know, and I tell you here at a spot that is to me very solemn, that I never abandoned her. When I left for America, it was at her command. It was with the avowal that I should remain subject to her recall as long as we both lived. I should have kept my word. It’s not a thing that I can talk of again. You know all that has happened since, but for once I must tell you.”
Steele felt that nothing he could say would make the recital easier, and he merely inclined his head.
“I shall have her removed to England, if St. John wishes it,” Marston said. “God knows I’d like to have the account show some offsetting of the debit.”
As they left the gates for the omnibus, Marston added:
“If St. John will continue to act as my agent, he can manage it from the other side of the Channel. I shall not be often in Paris.”
Later, he turned suddenly to the Kentuckian, with a half-smile.
“We swindled St. John,” he exclaimed. “We bought back the pictures at Saxon prices.” His voice became unusually soft. “And Frederick Marston can never paint another so good as the portrait. We must set that right. Do you know—” the man laughed sheepishly—“it’s rather disconcerting to find that one has spent seven years in self-worship?”
Steele smiled with relief at the change of subject.
“Is that the sensation of being deified?” he demanded. “Does one simply feel that Olympus is drawn down to sea level?”
Shortly after, Marston sent a brief note to Duska.