moment and then turned slowly round the room. 'My portrait will never be finished now,' she said.
'Why do you say that?' Jill faltered. Her eyes followed Madame de Lamouderie's to the corner where Dick's canvas and easel stood. 'Dick hopes to go on with it, I think.'
'I do not think so,' said Madame de Lamouderie. 'He is finished with it—and with me. Show it to me.'
Jill got up and went to the canvas and turned it outward. And as she saw it she suppressed an exclamation of horror.
'Bring it nearer,' said Madame de Lamouderie.
'No, no,' said Jill, putting it back against the wall. 'It's still so rough. He doesn't mean you to see it yet.'
'I have already seen it. I have repeatedly seen it,' said Madame de Lamouderie. 'Bring it nearer—unless you wish to force me to get it for myself.'
Jill brought it to her then and held it for her to see and the old lady gazed at it in silence for a long time.
'He has made a devil of me, has he not?' she then said.
'It's not finished,' said Jill in a trembling voice. 'It isn't at all like you yet.'
'No? Isit not? I thank you. Yet it is so he sees me. It is so he sees me now, though only a little while ago—only three nights ago—he was with me here, and kind tome. Did you know that he came up here to see me? After he had stayed away until my very blood was grown thick with grief.'
'Yes, I knew.'
