Mr. Francis's eyes pored on the picture with a sort of fascination.
"A wonderful bit of painting," he said. "And how clearly you see not only the man's body, but his soul! That is the true art of the portrait painter."
"But not always pleasant for the sitter," remarked Geoffrey.
"I am not so sure. You imply, no doubt, that it was not pleasant for this old fellow."
"I should not think his soul was much to be proud of," said Geoffrey.
"You mean he looks wicked?" said Mr. Francis, still intent on the canvas. "Well, God forgive him! I am afraid he must have been. But that being so, I suspect he was as much in love with his own soul as a good man is for he does not look to me a weak man—one who is forever falling and repenting. There is less of Macbeth and more of his good lady in old Francis. Infirm of purpose? No, no, I think not!"
He turned abruptly away from the picture, and broke out into a laugh.
"He was a wicked old man, we are afraid," he said, "and I am exactly like him."
"Ah! that is not fair," cried Geoffrey.