He looked old and worn and tired. Violent passions, especially violent temper, freely indulged, had played their wonted havoc. And these eroding emotions had deepened seam and gutter painfully. There had now appeared the gauntness in eye socket and under jawbone, about the saddest of the forewarnings of decrepitude and death that show in the human countenance with advancing age. Roger pitied him, this really superior man who had given his life furiously to plowing arid golden sands and was reaping ill health and unhappiness as his harvest. “Come in,” said Roger.
When they were seated in the cool, airy workroom and had lighted, Richmond a cigar, Roger his pipe, Richmond glanced at the covered picture and said: “Is that it?”
“Yes,” replied Roger, not in a tone that invited further conversation along those lines.
“I’ve come to see you about it,” persisted Beatrice’s father, apparently undiscouraged.
“I do not care to discuss it,” said Roger.
“It is a picture of my daughter—painted for——”
“It is not a picture of your daughter,” interrupted Roger, “and it was painted for my own amusement.”
“My wife gave you the commission, with the idea of a surprise for me.”
Roger was silenced.
“So,” Richmond went on, “the picture belongs to us.”