Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. �When he had done with it? Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed, drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I�d as soon give you the picture itself: why don�t you ask for that?�
�Well, sir,� said Wyant calmly, �if you will trust me with it, I�ll engage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but Clyde�s see it while it is out of your keeping.�
The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst into a laugh.
�Upon my soul!� he said with sardonic good humor.
It was Miss Lombard�s turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words and her father�s unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her depth.
�Well, sir, am I to take the picture?� Wyant smilingly pursued.
�No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mind that,—nothing that can be reproduced. Sybilla,� he cried with sudden passion, �swear to me that the picture shall never be reproduced! No photograph, no sketch—now or afterward. Do you hear me?�
�Yes, father,� said the girl quietly.
�The vandals,� he muttered, �the desecrators of beauty; if I thought it would ever get into their hands I�d burn it first, by God!� He turned to Wyant, speaking more quietly. �I said you might come back—I never retract what I say. But you must give me your word that no one but Clyde shall see the notes you make.�
Wyant was growing warm.