Taking it up, I examined it minutely in the light. The idea of placing a half-mask upon the face suggested itself, and without delay I proceeded to carry it into effect. The little skill with the brush that I possess enabled me to paint in the half-lights upon the black silk, and the laughing eyes being fortunately intact, I allowed them to peer through the apertures.
The effect produced was startling, and none could have been more astonished at the result of my daubing than myself. The mask seemed to increase the reckless diablerie of its wearer, and enhance the fairness of the complexion, while it added an air of mystery not at all unpleasing to the eye.
A few days later, I dispatched it to the Academy, and waited patiently for the opening day, when I experienced the mingled surprise and satisfaction of seeing it hung “upon the line.”
The “Masked Circe” was pronounced one of the pictures of the year. Thousands admired it. The papers were full of laudatory notices; but the man who painted it, unaware of the fame he had suddenly achieved, was hiding his sorrow somewhere in the Vosges. A stray copy of an English newspaper containing a notice of his work, which Dick picked up in a hotel, however, caused him to return.
He burst into my room unceremoniously one morning, still attired in his travelling ulster. I saw that he was haggard-eyed and wild-looking. From his conversation, I knew that time had not healed the wound in his heart.
“I shall never be able to thank you sufficiently, old chap, for touching up my daub. It seems that the public admire her as much as I have done. I—I shall find her some day; then she will return to me.”
“Still thinking of her?” I observed reproachfully.
“Yes; always, always,” he replied, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I—I cannot forget.”
Dick’s popularity steadily increased; lucrative commissions poured in upon him, and he settled down to such hard, methodical work, that I began to think he had forgotten the woman who had enmeshed him.
With beaming face he came to me one summer’s morning and announced that, although the committee of the Chantrey Bequest had offered to purchase the “Masked Circe,” he had just received a letter from the Count di Sestri, the well-known Anglo-Italian millionaire and art patron, saying that he desired to buy it, and asking him to go down to Oxted Park, his seat in Surrey, to arrange the price.