But Elfrida
felt the intensity in his voice with a kind of fear, not
of the situation--she had a nervous delight in the
situation--but of herself. She had a sudden terror in
his coming so close to her, in his changed voice, and
its sharpness lay in her recognition of it. Why should
she be frightened? She jumped up gaily with the question
still throbbing in her throat.
"No," she cried, "you shall not promise me. I'll form a
solemn, committee of your friends--your real friends--and
we'll come some day and exact an oath from you, individually
and collectively. That will be much more impressive. I
must go now," she went on reproachfully, "and you have
shown me nothing that you've brought back with you. Is
there anything here?" In her anxiety to put space between
them she bad walked to the furthest and untidiest corner
of the room, where half a dozen canvases leaned with
their faces to the wall.
Kendal watched her, tilt them forward one after another
with a kind or sick impotence.
"Absolutely nothing!" he cried.
But it was too late--she had paused in her running
commentary on the pictures, she was standing looking,
absolutely silent, at the last but one. She had come upon
it--she had found it--his sketch of the scene in Lady
Halifax's drawing-room.
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