Norbert Franks was putting the last touches to a portrait of his wife; a serious portrait, full length, likely to be regarded as one of his most important works. Now and then he glanced at the original, who sat reading; his eye was dull, his hand moved mechanically, he hummed a monotonous air.
Rosamund having come to the end of her book, closed it, and looked up.
"Will that do?" she asked, after suppressing a little yawn.
The painter merely nodded. She came to his side, and contemplated the picture, inclining her head this way and that with an air of satisfaction.
"Better than the old canvas I put my foot through, don't you think?" asked Franks.
"Of course there's no comparison. You've developed wonderfully. In those days--"
Franks waited for the rest of the remark, but his wife lost
