“Yes, all the day. I could not tempt him out for even five minutes. But then, he has had a holiday, as he says, although it was only a fortnight. That was not very long for—for a honeymoon.”
As she said the last sentence she blushed a little, and shot a swift, half-tender, half-reproachful glance at her husband. But he did not meet it; he only looked into the fire, while his brows slightly contracted.
“I think Art owns more than half his soul,” the girl said, with the flash of a smile. “He only gives to me the fortnights and to Art the years.”
There was a vague jealousy in her voice; but then the footman brought in tea, and she poured it out, talking gaily.
From her conversation, Fane gathered that she had no idea of her husband's condition. With a curious and fascinating naturalness she spoke of her marriage, of her intentions for the long future.
“If Reginald is really seedy, Dr Fane,” she said, “get him well quickly, that he may complete his commissions. Because, you know, he has promised, when they are finished, to take me to Italy, and to Greece, to the country of Phidias, whose mantle has fallen upon my husband.”
“Do not force Dr Fane into untruth,” said Brune, with an attempt at a smile.
“And is that statue a commission?” Fane asked, indicating the marble figure, that seemed to watch them and to listen.
“No; that is an imaginative work on which I have long been engaged. I call it, ‘A Silent Guardian.’”