The Master did not lead the way to the side door, but approached the central one. He let himself in by touching some spring acting in the toad’s head, and Rosalie followed with a creepy sense of awe as she passed between these high doors, with their magnificent workmanship all hidden in the dusk.
The darkness of the big conservatory was partly dispelled by tiny electric lights, coloured crimson, that glimmered here and there among the foliage like glow-worms in a forest. As they passed the picture-gallery, Mr. Barringcourt noticed that the door was open.
“Who has been in there?” he asked.
“Mariana and I went this morning to see Mr. Todbrook’s portrait. Who painted it?”
“I did—from memory. A man’s best friend should represent him most faithfully. Don’t you think so?”
“But had you nothing to work from?”
“Oh, no! Nothing but memory. Memory is a very wonderful thing if one only cultivates it.”
“If I died, do you think you could paint me?” asked Rosalie, turning her face up to his.
“No,” he answered. “I have not known you quite long enough. I could attempt nothing better than a caricature at present.”
She laughed, and said: “I must endeavour to live a little longer, then.”