‘My dear Forster,’ he exclaimed, with real delight. ‘How glad I am! But, upon my life, you puzzle me. How does it happen that——’
He paused and looked questioningly at Madeline, who laughed and explained.
‘I met Mr. Forster when I was sitting for my portrait, and he brought me home.’
‘Very good of him.’
‘Was it not? But what are you doing? Painting something! You told me the other day that you did not intend to paint any more.’
‘It’s nothing,’ returned the dramatist, ‘nothing at all. Only a kind of sketch—a little thing of memory. No, no,’ he added, as Madeline approached the canvas, ‘you mustn’t look at it. It’s a secret. It’s—it’s a—portrait—of—a—young—lady—I—admire.’
Quietly laughing, he endeavoured to prevent Madeline from inspecting the picture, but she was too quick for him, and had already uncovered the easel.
‘Why, it’s me!’ she cried, and continued merrily, with a theatrical gesture, ‘I mean “it is I”!—which is the same thing, and more grammatical.’
‘Grammar was never your strong point, my dear,’ observed White, gently. ‘Well, what do you think of it?’
It was Madeline indeed, but Madeline the child, as she first appeared, with wild, wistful eyes, in that lonely studio. The colours were crude, the drawing incorrect, but for all that the expression was there, and the whole thing was instinct with life.