A friend of Owen's declared the portrait to be
that of a housekeeper on account of the shawl--a strange article of
dress, difficult to associate with a romantic singer. All the same,
Evelyn was very probable in this picture; her past and her future
were in this disconcerting compound of the commonplace and the rare;
and the confusion which this picture created in the minds of Owen's
friends was aggravated by the strange elliptical execution. Owen
admitted the drawing to be not altogether grammatical; one eye was a
little lower than the other, but the eyes were beautifully drawn--the
right eye, for instance, and without the help of any shadow.
"Look at the face," he said to Harding, "achieved with shadow and
light, the light faintly graduated with a delicate shade of rose."
He compared the face to a jewel the most beautiful in the world, and
the background to eighteenth-century watered silk.
"The painter conjures," Harding said, "and she rises out of that grey
background."
"Quite so, Harding."
Owen sat, his eyes fixed on the picture, his thoughts far away,
thinking that it would be better, perhaps, if he never saw her
again. Not to see her again! The words sounded very gloomy; for he
was thinking of his ancestors at Riversdale, in their tomb, and
himself going down to join them.
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