It was a room of old chintzes and old china, of fragile, distinguished furniture, of family portraits, of miniatures in medallions, and great bowls of roses everywhere. The whole house had a strange feminine atmosphere, a warm look as if a woman's hand had passed over it. Yet it was Nicky who was the soul of his house, a slender soul, three parts feminine.
Nicky was looking at Jane as she stooped over the roses. "Do you know," he said, "that you've come home? Come and see yourself."
He led the way into his library where her portrait looked down from its high place.
"You bought it?" said she.
"Rather. Gisborne painted it for me."
"Oh, Nicky!"
"It's your genius brooding over mine—I mean over me."
He looked at her again. When he looked at you Nicky's perfect clothes, his long chin, his nose that seemed all bridge, his fine little black moustache, Nicky himself retreated into insignificance beneath his enormous, prominent black eyes.
"I put you there," he said, "to inspire me."
Nicky's eyes gazed at you with a terrible solemnity whenever he talked about his inspiration.