'Perhaps,' he replied again.
'If,' said Roland, 'Mr. Feilding sends another picture in the same style for exhibition this year, I hope that the similarity of style may be tested by their hanging side by side.'
'Shall you send anything this year—in the same style?' asked Armorel.
'I hardly know. I have not decided.'
The critic looked at the picture more closely. 'Strange!' he murmured. 'One would swear ... the same style—so individual—and belonging to two different men!'
Then Roland covered his picture over with the curtain. There had been enough said.
'Now,' said Armorel, 'after our emotions and our fatigues of the play, we are exhausted. There is supper in the next room. Before we go in I want to sing you a song. I am not a singer, you know, and you must only expect simple warbling. But I want you to like the song.'
She sat down to the piano and played a few bars of introduction. Then she sang the first verse—it was Effie's latest song, that which Mr. Feilding had accepted but not yet published.
He heard and recognised. This third blow finished him. He sat down on the nearest chair, speechless. Mrs. Elstree watched him, wondering what was the matter with him. For he was in a speechless rage. Lucky for him that it was speechless, because for the moment he was beside himself, and might have said anything.
'That is the first verse,' said Armorel. 'I have set it to an old French air which I found in a book. The words seem written for the music. There are two more verses.'