“Shall I send him up to you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes,” said Norma.
There was a girl's glad cry, a girl's impulsive kiss, and Norma was left alone in the room. She had yielded. In a few moments he would be with her—the man who had said, “Her voice haunts me like music heard in sleep... I worship her like a Madonna... I love her as the man of hot blood loves a woman... My soul is a footstool for her to rest her feet upon,” and other flaming words of unforgettable passion; the man for whom one instant of her life had been elemental sex; the man whose love had transfigured her on canvas into the wonder among women that she might have been; the man standing in a slough of infamy, whose rising vapours wreathed themselves into a halo about his head. She clenched her hands and set her teeth, wrestling with herself.
“My God! What kind of a fool am I becoming?” she breathed.
Training, the habit of the mask, came to her aid. Jimmie, entering, saw only the royal lady who had looked kindly upon him in the golden September days. She came to meet him frankly, as one meets an old friend. A new vision revealed to her the heart that leapt into his eyes, as they rested upon her. Mistress of herself, she hardened her own, but smiled and spoke softly.
“It is great good fortune you have come, so that I can thank you,” she said. “But how can I ever thank you—for that?”
“It is a small gift enough,” said Jimmie. “Your acceptance is more than thanks.”
“I shall prize it dearly. It is like nothing that can be bought. It is something out of yourself you are giving me.”
“If you look at it in that light,” said he, “I am happy indeed.”
With a common instinct they went up to the portrait and regarded it side by side. Conventional words passed. He enquired after Morland.