“It is very beautiful,” said he softly.
The face had the inscrutable smile of La Gioconda; there was mystery in the mouth, imagination in the eyes, and holiness dwelt on her brows.
“Who did it?” asked Bruton.
“Some artist chap,” answered Gascoyne; “as a matter of fact,” he continued, carelessly, “the man she’s run away with. He’s very clever, don’t you think?”
He walked up to it, as though scrutinizing it for the first time; then, returning, he put his face close to the face of Bruton and said:
“Damned little devil, isn’t she?”
But it was Cassels who answered him.
“She has the most wonderful face I have ever seen,” he said; “the kindest face. But, then, nearly all faces are masks. That, I suppose, is what they’re for—to deceive, I mean.”
“Outside,” said Gascoyne, “I have the most gorgeous view.”
They turned and looked. The windows were wide open. Beneath them was a thick, undulating carpet of pear-blossom as thick as a heavy fall of snow, and as brilliant as snow in the sun. The orchard was several acres in extent. In the distance were blue mountains; the sky above them had a faint tinge of purple.