“It is my only picture,” he said.
Then Philip saw an opportunity, which was as welcome as it was unexpected.
“I beg you not to touch Madge’s figure or face again,” he said. “It is absolutely finished; there is nothing more to be done to it. Please!”
Evelyn gave a snort of disgust.
“That is criticism,” he said.
“Not at all; there is nothing to criticise. I mean it, really.”
Now Philip was no bad judge, and Evelyn was well aware of that. He had been as he painted, intensely anxious that Philip should like it, and Philip more than liked it. The great pleasure that that knowledge gave him was sufficient for the time to banish the forebodings that had begun to creep back, and were in a way confirmed by Philip’s wish that it should not be touched.
“Oh, Philip, is it really good?” he said. “I feel that I know it is, but I want so much that both you and she should think so.”
“I can answer for myself,” said the other.
With that the whole subject was dismissed for the time. Evelyn had given no promise that he would not touch the figure again, but Philip on his side was wise enough to dwell on that point no more, for he saw quite well that a certain inkling of the true state of things had been present, however dimly, to the other, and any further allusion would but tend to disperse that dimness and make things clearer. So the new canvas was produced, and Philip was put into pose after pose without satisfying the artist.