He was working very busily, and he did not conceal from his caller that it was Viola’s portrait he was finishing by the efficient aid of memory.
“Love, unperceived,
A more ideal artist he than all,
Came, drew his pencil from him, made those eyes
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair
More black than ash-buds in the front of March.”
Desha gazed long and steadily at the picture, his heart throbbing with passion; but he made no sign, saying, with pretended calmness:
“It is an ideal head and a good likeness. Memory stands you in good stead. But how about mine? Has it fared as well?”
Florian flushed up to his brow, and answered, evasively:
“No; it did not please me somehow, and I preferred not to finish it. So I painted out what I had begun.”