I intended to
destroy it--I don't know why I have not destroyed it!"
"But why? It is so good, so charming, so--so _true!_ You
did it for your own amusement, then! But that was very
selfish."
For answer Kendal caught up a tube of Indian red, squeezed
it on the crusted palette, loaded a brush with it, and
dashed it across the sketch. It was a feeble piece of
bravado, and he felt it, but he must convince her in some
way that the thing was worthless to him.
"Ah," she said, "that is a pity!" and she walked to
the door. She must get away, quite away, and quickly, to
realize this, thing, and find out exactly what it meant
to her. And yet, three steps down the stairs she turned
and came back again. John Kendal stood where, she had
left him, staring at the sketch on the easel.
"I have come back to thank you," Elfrida said quickly,
"for showing me what a fool I made of myself," and she
was gone.
An hour later Kendal had not ceased to belabor himself;
but the contemplation of the sketch--he had not looked
at it for two months--brought him to the conclusion that
perhaps, after all, it might have some salutary effect.
He found himself so curiously sore about it though, so
thoroughly inclined, to brand himself a traitor and a
person without obligation, that he went back to Norway
the following week--a course which left a number of worthy
people in the neighborhood of Bigton, Devonshire, very
indignant indeed.
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