"You're hateful, Bobby."
Hildegarde turned away. How could the two of them squabble like that with the thought of death so near? She wandered down the long room and stopped in front of the picture of the Chinese lady. Winslow, entering under the great archway, stopped beside her and said:
"That's one of the finest things in the collection."
"I don't like it half so well as your George Washington."
His cold eyes lighted. "Not many people have your discrimination. The Washington picture is extremely valuable, painted by an unknown artist. Undoubtedly an excellent likeness. I've had amazing offers for it."
"But you won't sell?"
"Perhaps. If I get my price."
"I wish I had money enough to buy it."
He was amused. "What would you do with it?"
A flush stained her cheeks. How could she tell him that in a flash she had seen the portrait over the fireplace of the little house?
She began to talk hurriedly about the lady with the butterflies. "I hate her face. There's something evil about it."
"Stand farther away," said Winslow. "If you'll sit in that chair, you'll get the best effect."
So Hildegarde sat in the king's chair and suited it so well that Winslow wished he might have her painted in an ermine cloak. She looked like a queen. If Crispin had seen her, his heart might have failed him. She was not in the least like the wife of a man with
