Moved by a restless spirit, she rose and went over to the mantelpiece. Her eyes fell with a start on a visiting-card inscribed COLIN PATON.
Her hands fell nervelessly to her sides. Somehow there seemed a third person in the room. Frank came back and handed her the box of cigarettes.
She indicated the card.
“Mr. Paton—has been here?... Thank you.”
“Yes. I asked him to come some time, and he came to-day. He said he wanted to see how your portrait was getting on.”
“What did he say about it?”
“I didn’t show it to him,” said Frank, with a touch of arrogance. “Besides, it isn’t quite finished, and no artist likes to expose an unfinished picture.”
“It’s practically finished. I needn’t come any more for it?”
“We won’t tell people it’s finished,” he whispered, close to her ear. “We will pretend it is still only half-finished.”
The words jarred, and she drew away from him. Yet he was quite right. If she crossed the threshold, she must in future take refuge in such subterfuges. She must lie to everyone, to honest Pat, to Colin Paton—— Her brows met in a frown. Could love thrive in such an atmosphere? Frank seemed to have thought the whole thing out, counted on her surrender—How dared he?—and yet—She had certainly encouraged him, there was no gainsaying that.