But Atalanta had only a moment in which to take everything in as Paul closed the door and locked it.
Now he put his arms round her and drew her across the room to face her picture.
“You see what I have placed here, my sweet?” he asked.
“The picture of me,” Atalanta replied.
“Your picture,” he said, “and I have arranged it so that it is a shrine. A shrine to you, my precious wife, and to our love.”
She looked up at him wide-eyed and he went on,
“I want you to understand, heart of my heart, that as a man grows up he gets to know many women and loves them because like flowers they bring beauty and fragrance into his life.”
He looked down at Atalanta and said with a little twist on his lips,
“I saw your face, my dearest heart, when Renoir said that he could only paint a woman when he h
