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"We're mighty glad you got out safe, but you've kicked the legs from under one of my pet ambitions. I sure had planned to nail Longorio's hide on my barn door. Yes, and you've taken the bread out of the mouths of the space writers and sob sisters from here to Hudson's Bay. Miz Austin, your picture's in every newspaper in the country, and, believe me, it's the worst atrocity of the war." "War!"
The Picture's beautiful face settled for just an instant in an expression of disappointment. "Of course," she replied, slowly, "if you wish it. But I thought you said," she went on with a sweet smile, "that this was perfect. Now you want to go out again. Isn't this better than a hot theatre? You might put up with it for one evening, don't you think?"
I looked up and caught one of her hands between my own burning and trembling ones. "I shall never be any better till I have you for my own, till we are married. Why are you so cruel to me?" "Cruel to you? Is that possible?" Her face had crimsoned violently, then it paled again to stone colour. "Well, don't let's discuss that. The picture's done. I can't work on it any more. It can't be helped.
And when you get through with that, I'd like you to paint me a picture to match it of the château, and as many little sketches of the fishermen, and the girls with the big white hats and bare legs and red petticoats, as you choose. You can live in the homestead till that picture's done, and then you can cross over and live in the château.
"I've seen it in the newspaper, but never connected it with you. Being out of the medical line I lost interest. Say, it's a wonder! Did it fetch 'em?" "Fetch 'em? It knocked 'em flat. That picture's the foundation of this business. Talk about suggestion in advertising! He's a regular hypnotist, Old Lame-Boy is. Plants the suggestion right in the small of your back, where we want it.
But I would be the easier to be assured that all went well with her, looking so dazed as she did. At her time of life too! More like than not Keziah will be for taking you over to the Castle, and maybe you'll see Mrs. Picture...." "Picture's not her real name, only young Davy he's made it for her." "Well, child, 'tis the same person bears it, whatever the name be! Maybe you'll see Mrs.
He's not a bad fellow though he does belong to the genus irritabile. I will go about it this very day." "You'll not find him, I'm sorry to say. There's a note I had from him yesterday. And the picture's quite unfit to be seen utterly ruined. But I can't think how you could miss it!" "To tell you the truth, Florimel, I had a bit of a scrimmage after you left me in the studio."
True to Joy's prediction, the silk cord snapped at once, and the picture's whole weight rested in their hands. "Quick!" cried Cynthia. "I can't hold it any longer!" And with a thud, the heavy burden slipped to the mantel. But there was no damage done and, feeling on the other side Joyce discovered that it had no glass. "Now what?" asked Cynthia. "We must turn it around as it rests here.
Picture occupied. Had it not been for her suspicion of a hornet's nest at hand, she might have dared to ordain that Mrs. Picture should be her sole guest in her own section of the Towers, or at least that she herself should become the table-guest of the old lady in Francis Quarles; "might have," not "would have," because Mrs. Picture's own feelings had to be reckoned with.
I can't kill myself in three days. It only means a touch of D. T. at the worst. 'If I give you three days more will you promise me to stop work and the other thing, whether the picture's finished or not? 'I can't. You don't know what that picture means to me. But surely you could get the Nilghai to help you, and knock me down and tie me up.
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