Mr. Wingate had taken a chair before the painting, and was looking at it critically.
"I tell you that's a marvellous thing, and it's as dreadful as masterly. There's only one way I can see by which a man could get any money out of it: that's by cutting out the separate faces and selling them singly. A body might endure to see one such countenance in his collection, but not more; or, it might be destroyed altogether. It explains why Cuthbert never recovered from the shock of the accident he was in. He never lost sight of it. He must have begun this while it was fresh in his brain, and he did his utmost to keep it fresh. Poor Salome, she had a hard life."
"She had a happy life. She loved my father. He loved her. Whatever he did was right, just right in her eyes. You needn't pity her. But, oh, if she were only here to consult! Why did you show it to me? Why did I have to see it?"
"Because it couldn't be helped. The thing is; it exists. Now what is to be done with it?"
"I—will ask my father."
"I don't know that that is wise. It might bring about a return of his malady, and I'm told he is improving in all respects."
"I must do it; it is his. There is no other way."
"What if it makes him worse again?"
Poor Amy! All her Christmas cheer had died from her heart. She felt that it would be almost wicked to remind her father of this, his "life work," of which she had not heard him speak since he left Fairacres. Yet it was his. He had given years to its completion, so far as it had neared that point.
Mr. Wingate regarded her keenly. "Well?" he asked.