with a certain dryness. 'Faithful husbands have no histories.'
'Ah, but seductive young painters—before they become husbands—before they are rangés—have them.'
'A husband as happy as I am forgets them.'
She felt, perhaps, the dryness. 'Bien,' she said, as though she committed a lesson to memory. 'Bien. You are a very happy husband. You do not need to tell me that. I will ask no more questions about forbidden fruits.' And she went back to her chair.
'All these smudges, these marks you object to,' said Graham very kindly, 'are only exaggerated indications of shadows and outlines. They won't look like that when I begin to paint, I promise you. You'll be surprised, I promise you, when you see your portrait. The Sleeping Beauty will recognize her waking self.'
Shaking her head a little and again with the slightly twisted smile, the old lady said, 'Vous êtes charmant.'
When Graham, an hour later, left the Manoir, the early evening was gathering, purpling the vistas of the chestnut forest. He smiled a little to himself, as he went, lighting a cigarette and thrusting his hands into his pockets; a tall, dark-headed figure, full of grace and power, moving swiftly through the evening. He saw his portrait—what it was to be; and already he could smile at that; already it was witty, cruel, beautiful, what he was doing. And he smiled in thinking of the old lady. What he had said of her to Jill, last autumn,
