Again there was a silence.
Outside there was a clack of horses’ hoofs, the roll of carriages, the hoot of taxis, all the sounds of London to which one grows so accustomed that one hears them even less than one hears the humming of insects in a sunny garden. And away below the window was the river, gliding grey and noiseless to the sea.
It was a November day with a hint of fog in the atmosphere. A fire was burning in the room in which the two were sitting, and great yellow chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight were in bowls set on the tables.
And in the silence the woman was looking almost for the first time into her heart with a kind of wonder for what she might find hidden there. And the man, whose nature was one of queer self-analysis, was marvelling that his feeling towards the woman near him held nothing but strong affection and a curious interest in her vivid and unusual personality. Perhaps the cause lay in the fact that he had known her from childhood, and seen her gradual development. She had never flashed unexpected and meteor-like across his path.
Suddenly she looked up at him with one of her individual smiles—a smile that lit up her eyes before it found its way to her lips.
“We have wandered a long way from my request,” she said.
“To find an artist for you?” said Christopher. “Oh, I know a man.”
“Yes?” she asked, all interest. “What is he like?”
“Clever,” said Christopher, “pleasant, and—yes, I think you’ll find him interesting. I think those were your three requirements.”
“What is his name?”