the obsessing mood of the forest and tell himself that he had come, in the most literal, most dryly professional sense, to see Mademoiselle Ludérac. Let him but once possess her face, so that he could draw it from memory, and the mood would be exorcised. And there drifted dimly through his mind the outline of an ethereal, leaning head; a shape only, featureless; yet it gazed, as if on paradise, and he saw the backward lines of its windswept hair.
Though he had come so slowly—and hours, to his apprehension, seemed to have passed since he had said good-bye to Jill—the Manoir clock was just striking eleven when Joseph let him in. He made some affable remark about the bad weather as Joseph helped him off with his coat, but, answering never a word, Joseph only bowed his head in sad assent.
Madame de Lamouderie was the first object that met his eye on entering the drawing-room. She sat in readiness, in her bergère, her lips rouged, her cheeks powdered, her mantilla on her head; and his easel was in place and the portrait was upon it. But though she was ready, she showed no sparkle. She was grave, and almost distant.
'This is terrible weather, is it not?' she said, giving him her hand. 'It is brave of you indeed to venture out.—Madame Graham is well?'
'Yes, Jill's always well.'
'You are wise to cherish her.'
'I don't cherish her!' laughed Graham. 'You might as well talk of cherishing an oak-tree!'
