Nothing had happened during those days when Dan Webster had made the two pictures of Eweretta—that is, nothing had happened that either the painter or the model could single out and say that it was important. Yet, to both of them these days stood out from the rest of their lives. They were days neither would ever forget.
Their talk had been commonplace, and Mrs. Le Breton had always been present at the sittings.
Sometimes their eyes had met—met and rested on each other. That was all.
Eweretta’s eyes, being a woman’s, had not failed to read the worship in the eyes of the man.
It was Dan’s which had failed to read the light of newly-awakened pleasure in those of his model.
Perhaps Eweretta’s eyes had so long been sad that even in happiness there was pathos in them.
Anyway, Dan had said good-bye to his Madonna without the slightest knowledge that he had come as a joy into her life, and that his going—mattered.
He had stumbled boyishly in the last words he had spoken to her, holding her hand awkwardly. He recalled his lame utterance afterwards with humiliation and savage regret.
He had wanted to say something that she would remember, something that should tell her that one fortnight of his life had been worth all the rest put together—that her face which he had put on canvas was even more indelibly fixed on his heart. He had not wanted to imply love by his words, but homage. He wanted her to know that she was indeed his Madonna—a thing holy. And all he had said was “I am sorry it is all over!”
Eweretta had met his gaze frankly, with that mystic smile on her lips which he loved, and she had only said “Good-bye.”