"Is
he far away in Paris, hearing her sing for the first time to Madame
Savelli? Or is he standing with her looking over the bulwarks of the
_Medusa_, seeing the shape of some Greek island dying in the
twilight?" And Harding did not speak, feeling the lover's meditation
to be sacred. Owen flung himself into an arm-chair, and without
withdrawing his eyes from the picture, said, relying on Harding's
friendship:
"It is very like her, it is really very like her. I am much obliged
to you, Harding, for having bought it. I shall come here to see it
occasionally."
"And I'll present you with a key, so that when I am away you can
spend your leisure in front of the picture.... Do you know whom I
shall feel like? Like the friend of King Condules."
"But she'll not ask you to conspire to assassinate me. My murder
would profit you nothing. All the same, Harding, now I come to think
of it, there's a good deal of that queen in Evelyn, or did she
merely desire to take advantage of the excuse to get rid of her
husband?"
"Ancient myths are never very explicit; one reads whatever psychology
one likes into them. Perhaps that is why they never grow old."
The door opened... Harding's servant brought in a parcel of proofs.
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