“It is Diana and Endymion,” replied the painter.
She looked at it for a long time, half-closing her eyes, which clung to the face of Endymion.
“I have not made Diana tender enough,” thought Arthur, mournfully, as he watched her.
“How soundly he sleeps!” said Hope Wayne, at length, as if she had been really trying to wake him.
“You think he merely sleeps?” asked Arthur.
“Certainly; why not?”
“Oh! I thought so too. But Lawrence Newt, who sat two hours ago just where you are sitting, said, as he looked at the picture, that Endymion was dead.”
Hope Wayne put her finger to her lip, and looked inquiringly at her companion.
“Dead! Did he say dead?” she asked.
“Dead,” repeated Arthur Merlin.