But he had not used it fairly, seriously. He had thrown
it over her face like a veil, if anything could be a veil
which rather revealed than hid, rather emphasized than
softened, the human secret of the face underneath. He
realized now that he had been guided by a broader
perception, by deeper instincts, in painting that. It
was the real Elfrida.
There was still a moment before she spoke. He wondered
vaguely how she would take it, and he was conscious of
an anxiety to get it over. At last she rose and faced
him, with one hand, that trembled, resting on the back
of the chair. Her face wore a look that was almost
profound, and there was an acknowledgment in it, a degree
of submission, which startled him.
"So that is how you have read me," she said, looking
again at the portrait "Oh, I do not find fault; I would
like to, but I dare not. I am not sure enough that you
are wrong--no, I am too sure that you are right. I am,
indeed, very much preoccupied with myself. I have always
been--I shall always be. Don't think I shall reform after
this moral shock as people do in books. I am what I am.
But I acknowledge that an egotist doesn't make an agreeable
picture, however charmingly you apologize for her.
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