"And, Jim, do you know how much I love you? Do you know how your face leads me on?—It is your face I must have now, darling. Portrait of the Artist, by Himself, is a title I have often smiled over, wondering how a man could be induced to paint his own features, but now I know! It is always because some woman has so clamorously demanded it—a woman who loved him! What else can so entirely satisfy—and when will you send it to me?"
When I came to the end I was sorry, for I had such a way of getting en rapport with her sentiments that I eyed the next express wagon I passed, eagerly, to see if it could possibly be bringing the Portrait of the Artist, by Himself!
And on this occasion I reread a portion of the letter.
"Your face—your rugged face—or I could never be good!"
The picture of a rugged face was haunting me, and after a moment a sudden thought came to me.
"Why, that's what I should like!"
I had the grace to feel ashamed, of course, especially as I recalled how mother and Guilford had tormented me that afternoon to know why I wouldn't marry—and I found the answer in this sudden discovery. Still, that didn't keep me from pursuing the subject.
"A rugged face—great forests—fierce freedom—glorious uplift!—Oh, Man! Man! Where are you—and where is your great forest?—That's exactly what I want!"
I turned back to the desk, after a while, and still allowing my mind to circle away from the business at hand somewhat, I drew out another letter. It was short—and troubled. The dear, little, lady-like writing ran off at a tangent.
"Yes, I have seen the picture! Next to Murillo's Betrothal of St. Catherine,—the face is the loveliest thing I have ever seen on canvas.