"You would not want the altar piece which I should paint," he said, with sudden sadness.
"Santa Francesca?" she asked. "It would have to be Santa Francesca. The chapel is dedicated to her. You could make a beautiful picture of her—a portrait, perhaps—" she stopped.
"Of yourself? Yes, I could do that," he answered quickly.
"No," she said, and hesitated. "Of your wife," she added rather abruptly.
He started and looked at her, and she was sorry that she had spoken. Gloria's beautiful face had risen in her mind, and it had seemed generous to suggest the idea. Finding a difficulty in telling him, she had thought it her duty to be frank.
He laughed harshly before he answered her.
"No," he said. "Certainly not a portrait of my wife. Not even to please you. And that is saying much."
He spoke very bitterly. In the few words, he poured out the pent-up suffering of many months. Francesca turned pale.
"I know, and it is my fault," she said in a low voice.
"Your fault? No! But it is not mine."