“I have something to show you,” he remarked quietly. “But before I show it to you, I want to tell you a very short story. Three years ago I was in the back of beyond in Brazil. I’d got a bad dose of fever, and the gassing I got in France wasn’t helping matters. It was touch and go whether I pulled through or not. And one day one of the fellows got a two-month-old Tatler. In that Tatler was a picture—a picture of the loveliest girl I have ever seen. I tore it out, and I propped it up at the foot of my bed. I think I worshipped it; I certainly fell in love with it. There is the picture.”
He handed it to her, and she looked at it in silence. It was of herself, and after a moment or two she raised her eyes to his.
“Go on,” she said gently.
“A few months ago I came back to England. I found a seething cauldron of discontent; men out of work—strikes—talk of revolution. And this was the country for which a million of our best had died. I also found—week after week—my picture girl displayed in every paper, as if no such thing as trouble existed. She, in her motor-car, cared for none of these things.”
“That is unjust,” said the girl, and her voice was low.
“I knew it was unjust,” answered the man, “but I couldn’t help it. And if I couldn’t help it—I who loved her—what of these others? It seemed symbolical to me.”
“Nero fiddling,” said the girl, with a faint smile. “You’re rather a strange person, Mr. Brooke. Am I to understand that you’re in love with me?”
“You are not. I’m in love with the you of that picture.”
“I see. You have set up an image. And supposing that image is a true one.”
“Need we discuss that?” said the man, with faint sarcasm.