“Of course,” she said slowly. “I never thought of it before. It’s the image of Pippa.”
Barnabas nodded.
“I saw it when I came back into the studio and found her at tea.”
There was a pause.
“Who is the portrait?” asked Miss Mason.
“A man I knew long ago,” said Barnabas. “His name was Philippe Kostolitz. He was a strange man—an Hungarian. He was a true vagabond, yet certainly of good birth. I knew nothing of his people, if he had any. He was half gipsy and wholly artist. The statue of the little faun in my garden is his work. He gave it to me. We were great friends.”
“Ah,” said Miss Mason softly. “And where is he now?”
Barnabas made a swift sign of the cross. He had been baptized a Catholic, and in spite of his present rather Pagan views regarding life he had retained this beautiful custom. There was an innate instinct of reverence in Barnabas.
“In Paradise I hope. He was killed nine years ago in a railway accident. It was a horribly prosaic ending for a man whose whole nature was the essence of poetry.”
Miss Mason was silent. After a moment she spoke.