"May I come and look?"
Rooke moved aside.
"Yes, if you like. I've been working at the face to-day."
She regarded the picture for some time in silence, Rooke watching her intently the while.
"Well?" he said at last, interrogatively.
"Maryon"—she spoke slowly—"do I really look like—that?"
He nodded.
"Yes," he replied quietly. "When you let yourself go—when you take off the meaningless mask I complained of."
With that uncanny discernment of his—that faculty for painting people's souls, as Nan described it—he had sensed the passionate, wistful, unhappy spirit which looked out from her eyes, and the face on the canvas gave back a dumb appeal that was almost painfully arresting.
Nan frowned.