And he sighed slightly. I raised my head and looked at him steadily.
CHAPTER XII.
The sheltering darkness of the spectacles I wore prevented him from noticing the searching scrutiny of my fixed gaze. His face was shadowed by a faint tinge of melancholy; his eyes were thoughtful and almost sad.
“You loved him well then in spite of his foolishness?” I said.
He roused himself from the pensive mood into which he had fallen, and smiled.
“Loved him? No! Certainly not—nothing so strong as that! I liked him fairly—he bought several pictures of me—a poor artist has always some sort of regard for the man who buys his work. Yes, I liked him well enough—till he married.”
“Ha! I suppose his wife came between you?” He flushed slightly, and drank off the remainder of his cognac in haste.
“Yes,” he replied, briefly, “she came between us. A man is never quite the same after marriage. But we have been sitting a long time here—shall we walk?”
He was evidently anxious to change the subject. I rose slowly as though my joints were stiff with age, and drew out my watch, a finely jeweled one, to see the time. It was past nine o’clock.
“Perhaps,” I said, addressing him, “you will accompany me as far as my hotel. I am compelled to retire early as a rule—I suffer much from a chronic complaint of the eyes as you perceive,” here touching my spectacles, “and I cannot endure much artificial light. We can talk further on our way. Will you give me a chance of seeing your pictures? I shall esteem myself happy to be one of your patrons.”