Unconsciously one of Sidwell's hands made a downward motion of deprecation. "He did not. We made the circuit of the earth together in pursuit of it—but all was useless. It seemed as though the more he searched the more he was baffled in his quest."
For a moment the girl made no reply, but in her lap her hands clasped tighter and tighter. A thought that made her finger-tips tingle was taking form in her mind. A dim comprehension of the nature of this man had first suggested it; the fact that the canvas was unsigned had helped give it form. The speaker's last words, his even tone of voice, had not passed unnoticed. She turned to the canvas, searched the skilfully concealed outlines of the tattered figure with the upturned eyes. The clasped hands grew white with the tension.
"I didn't know before you were an artist as well as a writer," she said evenly.
Sidwell turned quickly. The girl could feel his look. "I fear," he said, "I fail to grasp your meaning. You think—"
Florence met the speaker's look steadily. "I don't think," she said, "I know. You painted the picture, Mr. Sidwell. That man there on the mountain-side is you!"
Her companion hesitated. His face darkened; his lips opened to speak and closed again.
The girl continued watching him with steady look. "I can hardly believe it," she said absently. "It seems impossible."
Sidwell forced a smile. "Impossible? What? That I should paint a daub like that?"
The girl's tense hands relaxed wearily.
"No, not that you paint, but that the man there—the one finding happiness unattainable—should be you."