“It is very beautiful,” the doctor said. “What is your idea exactly? What is the figure guarding?”
Brune and his wife glanced at one another—he gravely, she with a confident smile.
Then he said, “I leave that to the imagination.”
Dr Fane looked again at the statue, and said slowly, “You have wrought it so finely that in this light my nerves tell me it is alive.”
Mrs Brune looked triumphant.
“All the world would feel so if they could see it,” she said; “but it is not to be exhibited. That is our fancy—his and mine. And now I will leave you together for a few minutes. Heal him of his ills, Dr Fane, won't you?”
She vanished through the door at the end of the studio. The two men stood together by the hearth.
“She does not know?” Fane asked.
The other leaned his head upon his hand, which was pressed against the oak mantelpiece.
“I am too cowardly to tell her,” he said in a choked voice. “You must.”