Frank got quickly out of his chair and stood before them. His thin, tall figure looked almost ghostly in the strange half-light, and he spoke rapidly and excitedly.
"That is exactly what I am afraid of," he said. "I am afraid—I confess it—I am afraid of many things about this portrait, and that is one of them. I began to paint myself once before—I have never told even Margery this—but I had to stop. But this afternoon several things made themselves irresistible, and I must try again. I was in bad health when I tried before, and one evening when I went into the studio and saw it—it was more than half finished—I had a sudden giddy feeling that I did not know which was me—the portrait or myself. I knew I was on the verge of something new and unknown, that if I went on with it I should go mad or go to heaven; and when I moved towards it I saw it—I did see it—take a step towards me."
"Looking-glass," said Margery. "Go on, dear."
"'I AM AFRAID—I CONFESS IT'"
"Then I was frightened. I ran away. Next day I came back and tore the picture into shreds. But now I am braver. Besides, brave or not, I must do it. I lost a great deal, I know, by not going on with it, but I could not. Oh yes, you may laugh if you like, but it is true. You may even say that what I lost was exactly what one always does lose when one is afraid of doing something. One loses self-command. One is less able to do the thing next time one tries. I lost all that, but I lost a great deal more: I lost the chance of knowing what happens to a man if he parts with himself."
"Don't be silly, Frank," said Margery, suddenly. "How can a man part with himself?"
"In two ways at least. He may go mad or he may die. I dare say it doesn't matter much, if one only has produced something worth producing; but it frightened me."