La commedia e finita!
While she was putting on her cloak, her eyes caught Summerhay's. She tried to smile—could not, gave a shake of her head, slowly forced her gaze away from his, and turned to follow Winton.
At the National Gallery, next day, she was not late by coquetry, but because she had changed her dress at the last minute, and because she was afraid of letting him think her eager. She saw him at once standing under the colonnade, looking by no means imperturbable, and marked the change in his face when he caught sight of her, with a little thrill. She led him straight up into the first Italian room to contemplate his counterfeit. A top hat and modern collar did not improve the likeness, but it was there still.
“Well! Do you like it?”
“Yes. What are you smiling at?”
“I've had a photograph of that, ever since I was fifteen; so you see I've known you a long time.”
He stared.
“Great Scott! Am I like that? All right; I shall try and find YOU now.”
But Gyp shook her head.
“No. Come and look at my very favourite picture 'The Death of Procris.' What is it makes one love it so? Procris is out of drawing, and not beautiful; the faun's queer and ugly. What is it—can you tell?”