"You shall not go, not until you have seen her,—her I adore. Sit there!" he thundered; and then, with an apparent sense of his own harshness, he fell on his knees before me and kissed my fingers with feverish frenzy. "My queen! my own!" he cried.
I was so frightened I could not speak. What was I to do? To scream would not have availed me in that attic,—and yet I wonder now I did not try to scream. I tore my hands away from him and sprang from my seat, he not seeking to restrain me, but still kneeling and gazing up at me with wild but penitent eyes.
"Open the door, sir, and let me go! That is the least return you can make for your rudeness," I said.
"No, no, no!" he cried with a wail of grief. "I have insulted my goddess. I have broken her heart. She will not speak to me. But look, look!" he said, darting again toward the canvas and throwing aside the drapery. "She is here! I have her here forever. No one can rob me of her now."
Fancy my emotions. It was a portrait of myself!
I shall never forget the tipsy cunning of Paul Barr's expression, as he watched the effect of his legerdemain. The portrait was excellent; it was, indeed, a masterpiece. I was sufficiently in my senses to appreciate that, though my absorbing thought was how to get out of the room. For some moments we each kept our pose,—I standing surveying the picture, and he with his eyes bent upon me, leaning against the easel which was in the pathway to the door.
Suddenly, and to my intense surprise, he pronounced my name,—
"Virginia!"
It was a whisper almost, and spoken as one might breathe the name of a saint.
"Virginia!"