I looked about the spacious white-panelled room， with itsfamille-verte vases repeating the tones of the pale damaskcurtains， and its eighteenth-century pastels in delicate fadedframes.
“Has he chucked his pictures too？ I haven’t seen a single onein the house.”
A slight shade of constraint crossed Mrs. Gisburn’s opencountenance. “It’s his ridiculous modesty， you know. He saysthey’re not fit to have about； he’s sent them all away exceptone—my portrait—and that I have to keep upstairs.”
His ridiculous modesty—Jack’s modesty about hispictures？ My curiosity was growing like the bean-stalk. I saidpersuasively to my hostess： “I must really see your portrait，you know.”
She glanced out almost timorously at the terrace where herhusband， lounging in a hooded chair， had lit a cigar and drawnthe Russian deerhound’s head between his knees.
“Well， come while he’s not looking，” she said， with a laughthat tried to hide her nervousness； and I followed her betweenthe marble Emperors of the hall， and up the wide stairs withterra-cotta nymphs poised among flowers at each landing.
In the dimmest corner of her boudoir， amid a profusion ofdelicate and distinguished objects， hung one of the familiaroval canvases， in the inevitable garlanded frame. The mereoutline of the frame called up all Gisburn’s past！
Mrs. Gisburn drew back the window-curtains， moved aside ajardiniere full of pink azaleas， pushed an arm-chair away， andsaid： “If you stand here you can just manage to see it. I had itover the mantel-piece， but he wouldn’t let it stay.”
Yes—I could just manage to see it—the first portrait ofJack’s I had ever had to strain my eyes over！ Usually they hadthe place of honour—say the central panel in a pale yellow orrose Dubarry drawing-room， or a monumental easel placedso that it took the light through curtains of old Venetian point.
The more modest place became the picture better； yet， as myeyes grew accustomed to the half-light， all the characteristicqualities came out—all the hesitations disguised as audacities，the tricks of prestidigitation by which， with such consummateskill， he managed to divert attention from the real business ofthe picture to some pretty irrelevance of detail. Mrs. Gisburn，presenting a neutral surface to work on—forming， as itwere， so inevitably the background of her own picture—hadlent herself in an unusual degree to the display of this falsevirtuosity. The picture was one of Jack’s “strongest，” ashis admirers would have put it—it represented， on his part，a swelling of muscles， a congesting of veins， a balancing，straddling and straining， that reminded one of the circusclown’sironic efforts to lift a feather. It met， in short， at everypoint the demand of lovely woman to be painted “strongly”
because she was tired of being painted “sweetly”—and yet notto lose an atom of the sweetness.
“It’s the last he painted， you know，” Mrs. Gisburn said withpardonable pride. “The last but one，” she corrected herself—“but the other doesn’t count， because he destroyed it.”
“Destroyed it？” I was about to follow up this clue when Iheard a footstep and saw Jack himself on the threshold.
As he stood there， his hands in the pockets of his velveteencoat， the thin brown waves of hair pushed back from his whiteforehead， his lean sunburnt cheeks furrowed by a smile thatlifted the tips of a self-confident moustache， I felt to what adegree he had the same quality as his pictures—the quality oflooking cleverer than he was.
His wife glanced at him deprecatingly， but his eyes travelledpast her to the portrait.
“Mr. Rickham wanted to see it，” she began， as if excusingherself. He shrugged his shoulders， still smiling.
“Oh， Rickham found me out long ago，” he said lightly； then，passing his arm through mine： “Come and see the rest of thehouse.”
He showed it to me with a kind of naive suburban pride： thebath-rooms， the speaking-tubes， the dress-closets， the trouserpresses—all the complex simplifications of the millionaire’sdomestic economy. And whenever my wonder paid theexpected tribute he said， throwing out his chest a little： “Yes， Ireally don’t see how people manage to live without that.”
Well—it was just the end one might have foreseen for him.
Only he was， through it all and in spite of it all—as he hadbeen through， and in spite of， his pictures—so handsome，so charming， so disarming， that one longed to cry out： “Bedissatisfied with your leisure！” as once one had longed to say：
“Be dissatisfied with your work！”
But， with the cry on my lips， my diagnosis suffered anunexpected check.
“This is my own lair，” he said， leading me into a dark plainroom at the end of the florid vista. It was square and brown andleathery： no “effects”； no bric-a-brac， none of the air of posingfor reproduction in a picture weekly—above all， no least signof ever having been used as a studio.
The fact brought home to me the absolute finality of Jack’sbreak with his old life.
“Don’t you ever dabble with paint any more？” I asked， stilllooking about for a trace of such activity.
“Never，” he said briefly.
“Or water-colour—or etching？”
His confident eyes grew dim， and his cheeks paled a littleunder their handsome sunburn.
“Never think of it， my dear fellow—any more than if I’dnever touched a brush.”
And his tone told me in a flash that he never thought ofanything else.
I moved away， instinctively embarrassed by my unexpecteddiscovery； and as I turned， my eye fell on a small pictureabove the mantel-piece—the only object breaking the plainoak panelling of the room.
“Oh， by Jove！” I said.
It was a sketch of a donkey—an old tired donkey， standingin the rain under a wall.
“By Jove—a Stroud！” I cried.
He was silent； but I felt him close behind me， breathing alittle quickly.
“What a wonder！ Made with a dozen lines—but oneverlasting foundations. You lucky chap， where did you getit？”
He answered slowly： “Mrs. Stroud gave it to me.”
“Ah—I didn’t know you even knew the Strouds. He wassuch an inflexible hermit.”