Gilbert was silent. As a child he had known Image, and he had often wondered since if it had really been worth while to make a pariah of himself. He was answered now. It was so different from his mother’s version of the good-looking woman who got Image in her clutches and whom he was too unworldly to see through.
“I think that fifteen years of happiness is more than most of us can hope for,” said Paton quietly.
“I remember as a boy,” said Image reminiscently, “being asked what I wanted to do in life, and I replied ‘To do one thing well and make one person happy.’ I think I did the latter, but in the first I have failed. My globe-trotting books are pretty well known, but what are they, after all?” He looked at the portrait of Gilbert in his wig and gown, and there was a sort of gentle regret in his eyes.
“Surely you have been successful in both,” said Paton. “To love well—isn’t that one of the rarest talents?”
Image turned on him with his charming smile. “Ah! but it was so easy. If you had known her you would realize it was nothing to my credit—nothing at all.” He said it very simply, as though stating an undeniable fact. For a moment there was silence, while the ghost of a beautiful, sweet-natured woman passed through the room.
Then Gilbert, who, like most Englishmen, felt rather uncomfortable at the sentimental vein into which they had fallen, poured himself out a whisky and soda, and the prosaic hiss of the syphon dispelled the ghost.
“Well, I must be going,” said Paton, rousing himself from a little reverie and slowly getting out of the big armchair; “time for all good children, et cetera. Good-night, Mr. Image, I am very pleased to have met you. I hope we shall meet again.”
“We are sure to,” said Image cordially. “I wish you would come and lunch with me at my club one day? You will? Good. I’ll drop you a line. Good-night to you.”
Gilbert went to see him out, and Image, rising, looked again at the photograph of him which his mother said was too severe. As Gilbert came back to the room he compared the original with the photograph. More than a presentable man, Gilbert Currey was distinctly good-looking. The brow was broad and high, and the hair grew thick and strongly. His eyes, which Image remembered in the baby had been blue like his mother’s, were now a darkish grey and the lids fell rather heavily over them. This, however, did not give any impression of sleepiness, rather that of self-sufficiency and reserve force. The nostrils of his well-shaped nose were somewhat wide, denoting his energy and driving power. The chin was rather too heavy, and had he not closed his mouth so firmly the lips would have been a trifle sensual. Above the medium height, he gave promise of being one day a heavy man if he did not exercise sufficiently, but now he was still well-proportioned. The two men were physically a great contrast, for Carey Image was always known as “little Carey Image,” though the diminutive indicated affection as well as size. He had the small build and fineness of the Japanese.
“Well, cousin Carey,” laughed Gilbert as he met the ruminative gaze of the brown eyes, “sizing me up, eh? Find me much changed?” He took out a pipe and commenced to fill it.