She whispered it.
"Come over here—; where I am."
She hesitated.
"Ernest, what's the sense? How can you see in this light anyway, how—"
He did not let her finish.
"Come here!"
Slowly she went toward him.
"What is it, Ernest? What?"
"A crack?" His hand still worked across it. "In the paint—here along the arm. Or a cut, or something. How under the sun could it have happened? We've got to have it fixed somehow. Never heard of such a thing before. Old Daniel Drare'll be as sore as a crab if ever he gets wind of this. It'd be like hurting him to touch this portrait. He certainly does think the world of it! How could it have happened;—that's what I'd like to know."
"I—I don't know what you're talking about—I—!"