But Porter was reaching for the other sketch.
With it in his hand, he surveyed the small creature with the angel face. In her dress of pure clear red, with the touch of gold in the halo, and a lyre in her hand, she seemed lighted by divine fire, above the earth, appealing.
"I fancy it must have been the man's fault if marriage with such a wife was a failure," he ventured.
Colin shrugged. "Who can tell?" he said. "There were moments when she did not seem a saint."
"What do you mean?" Porter's voice was almost irritable.
"It is hard to tell," the little artist reflected—"now and then a glance, a word—seemed to give her away."
"You may have misunderstood."
"Perhaps. But men who know women rarely misunderstand—that kind."
"Did you ever hear Roger Poole preach?" Porter asked, abruptly.
"Several times. He promised to be a great man. It was a pity."