"Why do you keep this picture of Percival Houghton enshrined here?"
"Why not?" asked Cornelia, taken by surprise.
"It is the only picture in the room," replied Robert, evasively. "The face is that of an esthete under the influence of paranoia. It positively stares one out of countenance. Whenever I enter the room, I feel as if I mustn't take a seat until I've bowed before it thrice."
"I'm not responsible for other people's erratic feelings." Cornelia would have spoken with less acerbity if jealousy had prompted Robert's remark. But his cool sardonic tone eliminated the theory of a jealous motive.
"Pardon the explosion, Cornelia. But why must this man of all men be the presiding genius of your room?"
"You know the reason very well, Robert."
"Unfortunately, yes. You won't let your friends forget it. By keeping this portrait in evidence, you actually force the reason on people's attention. Do take him down, Cornelia, swathe him in incense, and lay him away amongst your most cherished souvenirs. Replace him, if you must replace him, with a picture of Saint Francis or Savonarola."
She bristled up under his ironic words. Her craving for admiration vanished in her resentment of disapproval.
"I am proud to have known Percival Houghton, and to have been his friend. Thanks for your recommendation, though I'm not aware of having asked for it."
"Don't be angry. You must own that you constantly remind your visitors of this Houghton affair, though what advantage it is to your position and influence, Heaven only knows. Let sleeping dogs lie. Believe me, Cornelia, half the tragedies in life result from forgetting what we ought to remember; the other half from remembering what we ought to forget."