How many letters would that be
a year, Harding?"
"My dear Asher, I never could calculate anything." "Well, let us
see." Owen took a pencil and did the sum, irritating Harding, who
under his moustache wondered how anybody could be so self-centred,
so blind to the picture he presented. "Eighty-five letters a year,
Harding, more than one a week; that is a pretty good average, for
when I saw her every day I didn't write to her."
"I should have thought you would write sometimes."
"Yes, sometimes we used to send each other notes."
"Will he never cease talking of her?" Harding said to himself; and,
tempted by curiosity, he got up, lighted another cigarette, and sat
down, determined to wait and see. Owen continued talking for the
next half-hour. "True, he hasn't had an opportunity of speaking to
anybody about her for the last year, and is letting it all off upon
me."
"There is her portrait, Harding; you like it, don't you?"
Harding breathed again under his moustache. The portrait brought a
new interest into the conversation, for it was a beautiful picture.
A bright face which seemed to have been breathed into a grey
background--a grey so beautiful, Harding had once written, that
every ray of sunlight that came into the room awoke a melody and a
harmony in it, and held the eye subjugated and enchanted.
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