This small bag, no larger than my hand, she proceeded to tie upon her person.
I did not wonder at all—if one dies, of course the valuables can do no good; but hope ever reigns in the human soul, and should good fortune bear one to safety, it is well to be provided with the sinews of war.
What next?
There was something more in that bag. Ah! she took it out, the photo in the silver frame—I saw her look at it, then turn her eyes toward me.
I accepted that as an invitation, and, rising, came near, somehow I did not seem to feel as though I were about to be pained—the old jealous feeling was no longer alive since I had learned that my one time rival, Hilary Tempest, was still gunning for an heiress.
It was a wretched picture of—myself.
No wonder I had failed to recognize it in the hurried glimpse obtained at the time she so quickly stowed it away in the bag.
I suppose a man may even become so accustomed to seeing himself in his glass, “bearded like the pard,” that he may scorn to recognize some early likeness, with its smooth, boyish face, and this picture had been taken before my marriage.
At least it was a pleasure for me to realize that she had carried it with her wherever she went.
I had no objection to that fellow’s picture being set upon her dressing table, where it must be the last thing her eyes would behold ere she retired, and the first thing in the morning.