CHAPTER 48
Norbert Franks was putting the last touches to a portrait of his wife; a serious portrait, full length, likely to be regarded as one of his most important works. Now and then he glanced at the original, who sat reading; his eye was dull, his hand moved mechanically, he hummed a monotonous air.
Rosamund having come to the end of her book, closed it, and looked up.
"Will that do?" she asked, after suppressing a little yawn.
The painter merely nodded. She came to his side, and contemplated the picture, inclining her head this way and that with an air of satisfaction.
"Better than the old canvas I put my foot through, don't you think?" asked Franks.
"Of course there's no comparison. You've developed wonderfully. In those days—"
Franks waited for the rest of the remark, but his wife lost herself in contemplation of the portrait. Assuredly he had done nothing more remarkable in the way of bold flattery. Any one who had seen Mrs. Franks only once or twice, and at her best, might accept the painting as a fair "interpretation" of her undeniable beauty; those who knew her well would stand bewildered before such a counterfeit presentment.
"Old Warburton must come and see it," said the artist presently.
Rosamund uttered a careless assent. Long since she had ceased to wonder whether Norbert harboured any suspicions concerning his friend's brief holiday in the south of France. Obviously he knew nothing of the dramatic moment which had preceded, and brought about, his marriage, nor would he ever know.