He let me go.
"I will not hurt you, my own true love. A kiss can do no harm. Once more!" and he threw his arms wide open for a fresh embrace.
But another voice interrupted his purpose. "Coward! you shall not touch a hair of her head."
It was Mr. Spence who spoke; we had not noticed the door open. He strode forward and placed himself between me and the artist. On the threshold stood Miss Kingsley, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as our eyes met. I would gladly have given half my fortune to blot out the past few minutes.
"Is this the courtesy of Bohemia?" asked Mr. Spence, breaking the silence that followed. He was pale, and his lips were set, and there had never seemed to me so little difference in stature between him and Mr. Barr.
"It is love," was the answer. "The rapture of those kisses will be on my lips to my dying day." The artist began to troll the words of a mad song of his own composition I had heard before.
"Paul Barr, though we have long differed on many subjects, we have been friends. But after what I have heard and seen to-day, we must meet henceforth as strangers," said Mr. Spence, with a fire I had never known him display before.
"I adore her, and I am human. See there!" he pointed to the portrait, which hitherto had escaped their attention. "I would give even that for another kiss."
At the sight of the picture Mr. Spence gave a start, for the likeness was marvellous. As for Miss Kingsley, she whispered in my ear,—
"Did you sit for it, dear?"