Her fiendish laugh was echoing after her, as Ida gained the parlor.
Mr. Ashlin did not appear abashed or disappointed, upon receipt of the apologies. He bowed, with a civil regret, and seemed to forget that there were other ladies in the house or in the world, than the one he was entertaining.
Ida's disagreeable oppression returned once, at his smile, when, in reply to his inquiry, she stated that the portrait in the niche opposite him, was Mr. Read's.
He got up to inspect it. To Ida, he was measuring himself with it, as he straightened his Apollo figure, and expanded his full chest.
"A good painting!" he observed. "How long since it was taken?"
"Two years."
"The pencil of time is the best test of the value of a picture—to some it is a destroyer,—it beautifies others. An excellent piece of work!"—still scanning it. "Is the likeness correct?"
"Uncommonly—or was, when it was painted. Mr. Read looks older and thinner now, that his health is impaired."
Again that sinister smile! but he said nothing more.
He called again, with a friend, an habitué of the house. It was evening, and Mrs. Read saw them. The length of his stay in Richmond was indefinite;—they were not sure but each visit was his last; and he, keeping up the uncertainty, came frequently, at the hours which suited him best. Josephine, succumbing seemingly, to the power of his wizard wand, freely declared her dread of his departure; Ida felt as much when with him, and revoked it, secretly, as soon as her eyes recovered from their dazzlement. Mrs. Read treated him, as she did her other visitors, and bore no part in the chorus of laudations chaunted in his absence. When Mr. Read was well enough to see company, he fell an easy conquest to the arts of the inimitable stranger. "He was"—he protested, "a better doctor than Ballard. An hour of his society was more beneficial to him, than the apothecary's entire stock of drugs."