“Suppose he did not die!” she said, half scared at the boldness of the suggestion. “If he were to come back!” And she went back and looked long once more at the picture. Then with less satisfaction she contemplated her own copy. Thus employed Roger found her when he passed her door an hour later.
“Still harping on my brother,” said he.
“I’ve done with him, thank you,” said Rosalind, handing him back the picture. “See, I have one of my own now.”
“Why, it’s better than the original. I like it better.”
“That shows how little you know about painting.”
“It shows how much you know about my brother,” said he. “But if you like to keep the original and let me have the copy, I should consider I had the best of the bargain.”
Rosalind tossed her head and locked her own copy up in her desk.
“Roger,” she said when that was done, “where did he die?”
“The date is on the picture, if one could only make it out. He was abroad at the time, I believe.”
“Where?”