She stretched her hand, and softly, inch by inch, drew the porte-crayon from his yielding fingers. “Please, Carl! The picture would haunt me, though it were out of sight.”
It was better than a wiser word. Carl’s face cleared.
“I am going to paint your portrait in oil,” he said, “and keep it myself. Shall I?”
“I will be your rich patroness, and you a poor artist,” she said. “I order my portrait of you, and will
pay—let me think what! It shall be a red gold medal of the Immaculate Conception, or a little ebony crucifix, with the figure in gold, whichever you choose. Then I will be a poor lady, and you a rich artist, and you shall buy the picture back, and—what will you give me for it? I know what I like that you have.”
“What do you like?” asks Carl, placing a large sheet of drawing-board on his easel.
“A tiny brooch, that you never wear, with a carbuncle in it. I confess to you that I have longed for it. It is like a coal of fire. It is most beautiful. You know I have a passion for gems. Flowers make me sad, but gems are like heavenly joys and hopes that never fade. There is no object in nature that delights me like a beautiful gem. They are the good acts of the earth. A ruby is an act of love, a sapphire an act of faith, an emerald an act of hope, a diamond an act of joyful adoration. Pearls are tears of sorrow for the dead, opals are tears of sorrow for sin. The opal, you know, is the only gem that cannot be imitated.”
“So you wanted the carbuncle,” Carl said, much pleased. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
“I waited till I knew that you cared nothing about it,” Edith answered.
“But I do value it very much now, young woman; and if you know where it is, you will bring it to me at once. I am impatient to see it.”