But as he raised his head Crowdie turned ashy pale. Even his lips lost some of their over-brilliant colour, and his eyes lost their light. Hester had descended the stairs noiselessly and stood in the open door, her face whiter than his. As their glances met, she dropped the sheet of pasteboard she held in one hand by her side, and steadied herself against the door-post. Katharine turned quickly and saw her. It did not strike the young girl that such agitation could be due to having seen what Crowdie had done. Katharine herself had been annoyed, but, after all, it was an innocent offence, she thought, especially for a man who had lived long abroad, and could not be supposed to attach much importance to the act of touching a glove with his lips, when he had been long familiar with the custom of kissing a lady’s hand instead of shaking it at meeting and parting, if the hand were offered to him.
“Why, Hester!” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“No—it’s nothing,” answered Hester, twisting her lips to form the words. “Here’s the drawing. I ran—I’m out of breath.”
She held it out as she spoke, and Crowdie took it from her mechanically. His hand trembled as he did so, for he was a coward. Hester turned from them both and went to the open window. She lifted one hand and rested it on the sash at the level of her head. They could not see that the other was pressed to her heart, for she kept the elbow close to her side. Crowdie was still pale and trembling, and he glanced uneasily towards her, as he held up the drawing to Katharine to look at.
“Give it to me,” said the young girl, unconsciously speaking in a low voice. “Your hand shakes.”
She began to wonder exactly what had taken place, and could find no explanation except Crowdie’s small offence. Instantly, she understood that Hester was desperately jealous of her. It sometimes takes longer to understand such things in real life, when they are very far from one’s thoughts, than to guess them from the most meagre description of what has taken place. Katharine almost laughed when she realized the truth. She looked intently at the drawing.
“It’s wonderfully like!” she exclaimed, feeling that matters would be worse if she did not express some admiration of the work, though she found it hard to concentrate her attention upon the familiar features. “Especially the”—she did not know what she was saying—“the beard,” she added, completing her sentence.
“Ah, yes—the beard—as you say,” responded Crowdie, in a rather tremulous tone, and glancing at his wife’s figure. Then he laughed very nervously. “Yes—the beard’s like, isn’t it?” he said.
“Oh, very!” answered Katharine, looking quickly at Hester and then intently at the pasteboard again. “Every hair—”
“Yes.” And Crowdie tried to laugh again, as though it would help him. “There are hairs in the pasteboard, too—sticking up here and there—it helps the illusion, doesn’t it?”