"A sunset? That is her hair. It is red, and she has much of it. Wait a little."
And he went on. It was certainly something like a sunset, the bright, waving streamers of the clouds flying far to right and left, and blending away to the neutral tint of the dry plaster as though to a grey sky.
"Yes, but it is still a sunset," said Francesca. "I have seen it like that from the Campagna in winter."
"She is not 'Gloria' for nothing," answered Reanda. "I am making her glorious. You shall see."
Suddenly, with another tone, he brought out the main features of the striking face, by throwing in strong shadows from the flaming hair. Francesca became more interested. The head was colossal, extraordinary, almost unearthly; the expression was strange.
"What a monster!" exclaimed Francesca at last, as he stood aside, still touching the enormous sketch here and there with his long brush, at arm's length. "It is terrible," she added, in a lower tone.
"Truth is always terrible," answered Reanda. "But you cannot say that it is not like her."
"Horribly like. It is diabolical!"
"And yet it is a beautiful head," said the artist. "Perhaps you are too near." He himself crossed the hall, and then turned round to look at his work. "It is better from here," he said. "Will you come?"
She went to his side. The huge face and wildly streaming hair stood out as though in three dimensions from the wall. The great, strong mouth smiled at her with a smile that was at once evil and sad and fatal. The strange eyes looked her through and through from beneath the vast brow.