"No: you wouldn't: and I'm afraid I can't enlighten you. But the fact remains. Would you mind if I sent it to the Academy, just as a Portrait of a Soldier?"
"The Academy? Good Lord! I should be proud."
"Thank you. I believe they'll hang it; and hang it well. That will be my reward. But what about yours?"
She looked up at him now, letting her eyes rest confidently in his: and the glad light in them held him, dazzled him, so that he forgot to answer her; forgot much that he ought to have remembered, in the flashlight of a revelation so simple yet so astounding that it took him several seconds to understand what had befallen him.
"Well?" she asked, smiling. "Is it so tremendous?" And the spell was broken. But reality remained.
He felt something in him throb strangely; the pain of it melting into a glow more startling than the first shock; and with an awkward laugh he turned abruptly away from her;—too abruptly, as a twinge in his left leg gave warning, so that the laugh ended in an involuntary sound of pain.
"Mr Richardson, do be careful," she reproved him gently. "What has come to you? And why do you go off like that without answering my question?"
For he had crossed to the mantelpiece; and a photo of her portrait of Lenox seemed to be absorbing his attention. Nor did he take his eyes from it in speaking.
"Because—well, because it struck me that perhaps you wouldn't be so keen about rewarding me,—if you knew . . . ."
"What? Is there anything to know?"