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seemed, had only been delayed. "Good news," she said quietly. "In
that case I intend flying back to 'Wake-Robin'."
A chorus of protests greeted her decision.
"You shan't, Hermia," shouted Reggie Armistead, "until either Salignac
or I have tried it out."
"You will oblige me, Reggie," replied Hermia calmly, "by minding your
own business."
"O Hermia, after falling this morning! How can you dare?" cried Miss
Van Vorst, with a genteel shudder.
"_Si Mademoiselle me permettrait_--" began Salignac.
But she waved her hand in negation and indicated the wide lawn in front
of the ruined buildings which sloped gently to the water's edge.
"Wheel it there, Salignac," in French, "and, Reggie, please go at once
and help."
Armistead's boyish face turned toward her in admiration and in protest,
but he followed Salignac without a word.
"It's folly, Hermia," added Hilda. "Something _must_ be wrong with the
thing. You remember just the other day--"
"I'm going, Hilda," imperturbably. "You can follow me in the launch."
Of Hermia's companions, Olga Tcherny alone said nothing. She had no
humor to waste her breath. And Markham stood beside the group, his
arms folded, his head bowed, listening. But when Hermia went into the
cottage for her things he followed her.
"You're resolved?" he asked, helping her into her blouse.
"Well, rather."
"I wish I might persuade you--your nerves were--a little shaken this
morning."
She paused in the act of putting on her gauntlets and held one small
bare hand under his nose that he might see how steady it was. He
grasped it in both of his own and then, with an impulse that he
couldn't explain, kissed it again and again.
"Don't go, child," he whispered gently. "Not today."
She struggled to withdraw her hand, a warm flush stealing up her neck
and temples.
"Let me go, Mr. Markham. Let me go."
He relinquished her and stood aside.
"As you please," he muttered. "I'm sorry--"
She turned, halfway to the door and examined his face.
"Sorry? For what?"
"That I haven't the authority to forbid you."
"_You?_" she laughed. "That _is_ amusing."
"I would teach you some truths that you have never learned," he
persisted, "the fatuity of mere bravado, the uses of life. You
couldn't play with it if you knew something of its value--"
"The only value of life is in what you can get from it--"
"Or in what you can give from it--"
"Good-bye, Mr. Markham. I will join your school of philosophy another
day. Meanwhile--" and she pointed her gauntleted hand toward the open
doorway, "life shall pay me one more sensation."
He shrugged his shoulders and followed.
The machine was already on the lawn surrounded by Hermia's guests and
preliminary experiments had proven that all was ready. Hermia climbed
into the seat unaided, while Markham stood at one side and watched the
propellers started. Faster and faster they flew, the machine held by
Armistead and the Frenchman, while Hermia sat looking straight before
her down the lawn through the opening between the rocks which led to
open water.
"_Au revoir_, my friends," she cried and gave the word, at which the
men sprang clear, and amid cries of encouragement and congratulation
the machine moved down the lawn, gathering momentum with every second,
rising gracefully with its small burden just before it reached the
water and soaring into the air. The people on the lawn watched for a
moment and then with one accord rushed for the launch.
Olga Tcherny paused a moment, her hand on Markham's arm.
"You will come to 'Wake-Robin'?" she asked.
"I think not," he replied.
"Then I shall come to Thimble Island," she finished.
"I shall be charmed, of course."
She looked over her shoulder at him and laughed. He was watching the
distant spot in the air.
"You're too polite to be quite natural."
"I didn't mean to be."
"Then don't let it happen again."
The voices of her companions were calling to her and she hastened her
footsteps.
"_Ë bientt_," she cried.
"_Au revoir_, Madame." He saw her hurried into the launch, which
immediately got under way, its exhaust snorting furiously, and
vanished around the point of rocks. In a moment there was nothing
left of his visitors to Markham but the lapping of the waves from the
launch upon the beach and the spot in the air which was not almost
imperceptible.
He stood there until he could see it no more, when he turned and took
his pipe thoughtfully from his trousers pocket and addressed it with
conviction.
"Mad!" he muttered. "All--quite mad!"
CHAPTER VII
"WAKE ROBIN"
Markham climbed the hill slowly, pushing tobacco into his pipe. Once
or twice he stopped and turned, looking out over the bay toward the
distant launch. The aroplane had vanished. When he reached the
bungalow he dropped into a chair, his gaze on space, and smoked
silently for many minutes.
Mad! Were they? Madness after all was merely a matter of relative
mental attitudes. Doubtless he was as mad in the eyes of his visitors
as they were to him. In his present mood he was almost ready to admit
that the sanest philosophy of life was that which brought the greatest
happiness. And sanity such as his own was only a sober kind of
madness after all, a quiet mania which sought out the soul of things
and in the seeking fed itself upon the problems of the world, a diet
which too much prolonged might lead to mental indigestion.
Morbid--was he? Introspective? A "grouch"? He was--he must be--all
of these things.
His small inquisitor had neglected none of his failings, had practiced
her glib tongue at his expense in the few hours in which she had taken
possession of Thimble Island and of him. What a child she was, how
spoiled and how utterly irresponsible! He identified her completely
now, Hermia Challoner, the sole heiress of all Peter Challoner's
hard-gotten millions, the heiress, too, it was evident, of his
attitude toward the world, the flesh and the devil; Peter Challoner,
by profession banker and captain of industry, a man whose name was
remembered the breadth of the land for his masterly manipulation of a
continental railroad which eventually came under his control; an
organizer of trusts, a patron saint of political lobbyists, a product
of the worst and of the best of modern business! This girl who had
fallen like a bright meteor across Markham's sober sky this morning
was Peter Challoner's daughter. He remembered now the stories he had
heard and read of her caprices, the races on the beach at Ormonde, her
fearlessness in the hunting field and the woman's polo team she had
organized at Cedarcroft which she had led against a team of men on a
Southern field. It had all been in the newspapers and he had read of
her with a growing distaste for the type of woman which American
society made possible. Peter Challoner's daughter, the spoiled
darling of money idolaters, scrubbing the floor of his kitchen!
As he sat looking out over the bay thinking of his visitor, a picture
rose and wreathed itself amid the smoke of his tobacco--the vision of
a little working girl in New York, a girl with tired eyes and a
patient smile, with the faded hair and the faded skin which came from
too few hours of recreation--from too many uninterrupted hours of
plodding grind at the tasks her employers set for her, a girl who
would have been as pretty as Hermia Challoner if her youth had only
been given its chance. This was Dorothy Herick, whose father, a
friend of Markham's father, had been swallowed up in one of the great
industrial combinations which Peter Challoner had planned. Markham,
who had been studying in Paris at the time, had forgotten the details
of Oliver Herrick's downfall, but he remembered that the transaction
which had brought it about had not even been broadly in accordance
with the ethics of modern business, and that there had been something
in the nature of sharp practice on Peter Challoner's part which had
enabled him to obtain for his combination the mills in the Wyoming
Valley which had been in the Herrick family for three generations.
Markham knew little of business and hated it cordially, but he had
heard enough of this affair to be sure that, whatever the courts had
decided, Oliver Herrick had been unfairly dealt with and that a part,
at least, of Peter Challoner's fortune belonged morally, at least, to
the inconsiderable mite of femininity who read proof in a publisher's
office in New York. He knew something of the law of the survival of
the fittest, for he himself had survived the long struggle for honors
which had put him at last in a position where he felt secure at least
from the pinch of poverty, and whatever Oliver Herrick's failings
among the larger forces with which he had been brought into contact,
Markham knew him to have been an honest man, a good father and a
faithful gentleman. Something was wrong with a world which pinched
the righteous between the grindstones of progress and let the evil
prosper.
It was an unfairness which descended to the second generation and
would descend through the years until the equalizing forces of
character and will--or the lack of them--brought later generations to
the same level of condition. Markham could not help comparing Hermia
Challoner with her less fortunate sister--Hermia Challoner, the
courted, the fted, who had but to wish for a thing to have it
granted, with Dorothy Herrick, the neglected and forgotten, who was
bartering her youth for twelve dollars a week and was glad to get the
money; one, who boasted that the only value life had for her was what
she could get out of it, with the other, who almost felt it a
privilege to be permitted to live at all. The more he thought of
these two girls, the more convincing was his belief that Miss Herrick
did not suffer by the comparison. She was doing just what thousands
of other girls were doing in New York, with no more patience and no
more self-sacrifice than they, but the childish vagaries of his
visitor, still fresh in his memory, seemed to endow Dorothy Herrick
with a firmer contour, a stronger claim on his interest and
sympathies.
And yet--this little madcap aviatrix disclosed a winning directness
and simplicity which charmed and surprised him. She was a joyous
soul. He could not remember a morning when he had been so completely
abstracted from the usual current of thought and occupation as today,
and whatever the faults bequeathed by her intrepid father, she was, as
Markham had said to Olga, quite human. There were possibilities in
the child-and it seemed a pity that no strong guiding hand led the way
on a road like hers, which had so many turnings. She was only an
overgrown child as yet, flat chested, slender, almost a boy, and yet
redeemed to femininity by an unconscious coquetry which she could no
more control than she could the warm flush of her blood; a child
indeed, full of quick impulses for good or for evil.
Markham rose, knocked the ash out of his pipe, walked over to his
canvas, set it up against the porch pillar and examined it leisurely.
But in a moment he took it indoors and added it to the pile in the
living-room, fetching a fresh canvas and carrying his easel and
paint-box over the hill to another spot, a shady one among the rocks
where he had already painted many times.
He worked a while and then sat and smoked again, his thoughts afar.
What sort of an influence was Olga Tcherny for the mind of this
impressionable child? The Countess was clever, generous and
wonderfully attractive to men and to women but, as Markham knew, her
views of life were liberal and she was not wise--at least, not with a
wisdom which would help Hermia Challoner. One doesn't live for ten
years in Paris in the set in which Markham had met her without
absorbing something of its careless creed, its loose ethical and moral
standards. New York society, he knew, reflected much that was bad,
and much that was good of the gay worlds of Paris and London; for
Americans are unexcelled in the talent of imitation, but from phrases
that had passed Olga's lips he knew that she had outgrown her own
country.
Markham tried to paint but things went wrong and so he gave it up,
swearing silently at the interruption which had spoiled his day. After
lunch he tried it again with no better success, and finally gave it up
and, taking a book, went out on a point of rocks where the tide swirled
and cast in a fishing line, not because he hoped to catch anything but
because fishing, of all the resources available, had most surely the
ways of peace. The book was a French treatise on the Marxian
philosophies--dull reading for a summer's day when the water lapped
merrily at one's feet, the breeze sighed softly, laden with the odors
of the mysterious deeps, and sea and sky beckoned him invitingly into
the realms of adventure and delight, so dull that, the fish biting not,
Markham dozed, and at last rolled over in the sunlight and slept.
How long he lay there he did not know. He was awakened by the exhaust
of a launch close at hand and sat up so quickly that "Karl Marx,"
rudely jostled by his elbow, went sliding over the edge of the rock
and into the sea. But there was no time at present to bewail this
calamity for the man in the launch had brought her inshore and hailed
him politely.
"Mr. Markham?" he questioned.
Markham nodded. "That's my name," he said.
"A note for you." The launch moved slowly in toward the landing and
Markham met his visitor, already aware that there was to be a further
intrusion on his solitude. He broke the seal of the note and read.
It was from Hermia Challoner.
Dear Mr. Markham:
Life, as you see, has yielded me one more sensation without penalty. I
am safe at home again, my philosophy triumphant over yours. There
isn't a great deal of difference between them after all. You, too,
take from life, Mr. Markham--you take what you need just as I do; but
just because your needs differ from mine, manlike, you assume that I
must be wrong. Perhaps I am. Then so must you, because you give less
than I do.
There is but one way to justify yourself, and that is to give up what
you are hoarding--what you prize most highly--your solitude. We want
you at "Wake Robin," Mr. Markham. Will you come to dine and stay the
night? By so doing you will at least show an amiable disposition,
which is more to the point than all the philosophy in the world. We
are very informal and dine at eight.
I am sure that if you disappoint us Madame Tcherny, who is already
tired of us all, will perish of _ennui_.
Very cordially yours,
Hermia Challoner
Markham read the note through and turned toward the cabin for pen and
paper.
"Will you moor the launch and come ashore?"
"Oh, no, sir," said the man, tinkering with the engine, "I'll wait for
you here. Miss Challoner said that I was to wait."
When Markham reached the bungalow he remembered suddenly that he had no
ink, pen--or indeed paper, and yet a verbal reply would hardly be
courteous. He stood in the doorway puzzling a moment and then went
over to a trunk in the corner, opened it and began pitching its
contents about. He straightened at last, put some garments on the bed
and looked at them with a ruminative eye.
"Oh, I had better go," he muttered, rubbing the roughness on his chin.
"I owe it to Olga. But why the devil they can't leave a fellow
alone--" and, fuming silently, he shaved, made a toilet, and packing
some things in a much battered suit case made his way to the launch.
At the Westport landing he found the Countess Olga, wonderfully attired
in an afternoon costume of pale green, awaiting him in a motor.
"There's a chance for you still, my friend," she laughed. "You have
won my fond regard--and, incidentally, the cost of a new frock."
"I?"
"Yes. We laid a bet as to whether you would come, Hermia and I. We've
been watching the island through the telescope, and saw you embark--so
to me--the victor, falls the honor of conducting you home in triumph."
"I'm to go in chains, it seems," he laughed, getting in beside her.
"I've rarely seen you looking so handsome."
"You're improving. It's joy, _mon ami_, at seeing once again a full
grown man. I have been bored--oh, so bored! Will you be nice to me?"
The motor skimmed smoothly over the perfect roads, mounting the hills
through the village and spinning along a turnpike flanked by summer
residences. "Wake Robin" stood at some distance from the village on
the highest point of the hills and made a very imposing vista from the
driveway--an English house with long wings at either side, flanked by
terraces, lawns and gardens, guarded from the intrusive eyes of the
highway by a high privet hedge. The tennis courts seemed to be the
center of interest and in a corner of the terrace which faced the bay
were some people taking tea and watching a match of singles between
Reggie Armistead and their hostess. The chauffeur took the suit case
to the butler and Olga Tcherny led the way to the tea table where
Phyllis Van Vorst was pouring tea. Beside her sat a tall handsome
woman with a hard mouth, dressed in white linen and a picture hat, who
ogled him tentatively through a lorgnon during the moment of
introduction before permitting her face to relax into a smile of
welcome.
"So glad," she purred at last, extending a long slim hand in Markham's
direction. "Phyllis, do give Mr. Markham some tea."
"How d'ye do, Mr. Markham," chortled Miss Van Vorst. "I'm afraid
you'll have to put up with the Philistines for a while. Hermia's
beating Reggie Armistead at tennis, and it's as much as one's life is
worth to interrupt."
"That's no joke," said Archie Westcott, who was watching the game.
"Some tennis, that. They're one set all and Hermia just broke through
Reggie's service. That makes it five four."
Markham, teacup in hand, followed the Countess to the balustrade and
watched. One would never have supposed from the way she played that
this girl had been up since dawn and suffered an accident which had
temporarily incapacitated her. Youth was triumphant. Vigor,
suppleness and grace marked every movement, the smashing overhand
service, the cat-like spring to the net, the quick recovery, the long
free swing of the volley from the back-court, all of which showed form
of a high order. It was a man's tennis that the girl was playing and
Reggie Armistead needed all his cleverness to hold her at even terms.
It was an ancient grudge, Markham learned, and an even thing in the
betting, but Armistead pulled through by good passing and made the
sets deuce.
"Gad! It makes me hot to look at 'em!" said Crosby Downs, fingering at
his collar band, his face brick-color from the day in the open. "Make
'em stop, somebody."
He dropped into a wicker chair and fanned vigorously with his hat.
"Lord! Golf is bad enough. Oh, what's the use," he sighed heavily.
"Been golfing, Crosby?" smiled the Countess.
"Oh, call it that if you like," he growled. "Rotten game, that.
Doctor's orders. A hundred and ten to-day. Couldn't hit the earth
even and there were acres of it."
"Living up to your reputation, Crosby," sneered Carol Gouverneur.
"_Sans putt et sans approach_?"
"You've struck it, young man. Sans anything, but that Weary Willie
feelin' and a devourin' thirst. But I lost four pounds," he added
more cheerfully--his fingers demonstrating in his waistband. "Oh,
I'll put it on again to-night at dinner. Silly ass business--this
runnin' around in the sun."
"Quite so," Olga agreed, "but everything we do is silly and asinine."
There was an outburst of applause form the others at a particularly
brilliant shot below.
"By George!" cried Westcott, "she's got him. It's Hermia's vantage and
forty-love. O Reggie! A love game, by Jiminy! Hermia, you've won me
a cool hundred."
The game was over and the players shook hands before the net, Hermia
laughing gaily, Armistead's eyes full of honest adoration. They were
handsome children, those two.
Hermia climbed the steps slowly amid the congratulations of the guests
and smiled as Markham came forward to meet her. She was rosy as a
cherub, her bright hair tumbled beneath her crimson hair-band.
"Very good of you to come, Mr. Markham," she said breathlessly. "I
had my eye in, and _couldn't_ stop. I simply had to beat Reggie, you
know," And then as her responsibilities recurred to her, "you've met
everybody? Mrs. Renshaw, Miss Coddington--Mr. Markham--the Hermit of
Thimble Island."
With a laugh she led him away from the others and threw herself in a
lounge chair and motioned him to a seat nearby.
"You see," she said gaily, "her I am--quite safe--and ready to mock at
all seriousness-the grasshopper entertaining the ant. Do you think you
can stand so much gayety, Mr. Markham?"
"Even an ant must have its moments of frivolity."
"You frivolous!" she smiled.
"I've always wanted to be. It's one of my secret longings. I was born
old. Show me how to be young and I'll give you anything I possess."
"That's tempting. I think I'll begin at once."
He laughed. "At what?"
She scrutinized him from top to toe.
"Oh, at your goggles."
He fingered his glasses.
"These?"
She nodded.
He took them off and looked at them amusedly.
"That's the first step. You're ten years younger already," she said.
"Oh, am I?"
"Yes. I'm sure of it--when you don't frown."
"And next?"
"You must flirt, Mr. Markham--and make pretty speeches--"
"Pretty speeches!"
"Oh, yes--you must treat every woman as though you adored her secretly,
and when ladies visit your studio you mustn't bang the door in their
faces."
"Did I do that?"
"Er--figuratively, yes. You were very impolite." She lay back and
laughed at him. "There--I feel better. Now we shall be good friends."
He fingered his goggles a moment, and then his eyes met hers in frank
agreement.
"I'm glad of that," he said, with a slow smile. "I like you a great
deal."
She straightened, her eyes sparkling merrily.
"You see? You're improving already. I have great hopes for you, Mr.
Markham." She threw a glance at the others and rose. "Here endeth the
first lesson. It is time to dress. We will resume after dinner. That
is," she added, "if Olga will spare you for a few moments."
"Olga--Madame Tcherny won't mind in the least," he laughed. "If you
can make me anybody but myself, she will thank you from the bottom of
her heart. Madame Tcherny is already at the point of giving me up as a
hopeless case."
"In what respect?"
"Oh, in all respects. I'm a great disappointment to her--" He stopped
suddenly. "I mean socially--professionally. You see I'm not the stuff
that successful portrait painters are made of--"
"Except perhaps that you really can paint?" she asked over her shoulder.
He shrugged and followed.
CHAPTER VIII
OLGA TCHERNY
As the guests gathered in the drawing-room and on the terrace before
dinner it was apparent to Markham that, unless he obeyed the
injunctions of his small preceptor, he would be quite forgotten amid
this gay company. On Thimble Island, as in New York, he had not found
them necessary to his own existence, and it was quite clear that her
at "Wake-Robin" they returned his indifference. After the first nod
and appraising glance in his direction, Crosby Downs and Carol
Gouverneur had completely ignored him. Archie Westcott had unbent to
the point of offering him a cigarette, and Trevvy Morehouse, who had
joined them over the cocktails, and injected polite bromidics into the
conversation which Reggie Armistead, who knew nothing of Markham's art
and cared less, only saved by some wholesome enthusiasm, in which all
joined, over the "sand" and all-around good fellowship of their
hostess.
But it required little assurance to make one's self at home here where
informality seemed to be the rule, and before Hermia and the Countess
came down Markham found himself on easy terms with the group he had
joined. Mrs. Renshaw's appraisal and patronizing air dismayed him
less than the china blue eyes of Phyllis Van Vorst which she had
raised with a pretty effectiveness to his; Hilda Ashhurst hadn't even
taken the trouble to notice him. When Carol Gouverneur was in her
neighborhood there were no other men in the world.
But Hermia took pains to make her guests aware of the status of Mr.
Markham in her house by seating him on her right at dinner and paying
him an assiduous attention which detracted something from Reggie
Armistead's interest, as well as Olga's, in that repast.
With a carelessness which put him off his guard Hermia drew him into
the general conversation, aroused his sense of humor, until with a
story of an experience in France, which he told with a dry wit that
well suited him, he found himself the center of interest at the head of
the table.
Out on the terrace over the coffee and tobacco, the compound slowly
resolved itself into its elements, social and sentimental. Markham,
scarcely aware of the precise moment when she had appropriated him,
found himself in the garden below the terrace with Olga Tcherny. The
heavy odor of the roses was about them, unstirred by the land breeze
which faintly sighed in the treetops. A warm moon hung over Thimble
Island, its soft lights catching in the ornaments Markham's companion
wore, caressing her white shoulders and dusky hair, and softening the
shadows in her eyes which peered like those of a seer down the path of
light where the moonbeams played upon the water.
He had always thought her handsome, but to-night she was a fragment of
the night itself, with all its tenderness and its melancholy mystery.
He watched her slender figure as she reached forward, plucked a rose
and raised its petals to her lips--a full flown rose, wasting its last
hours of loveliness. She fastened it in her corsage and led the way to
a stone bench beneath an arbor at the end of the wall where she sat and
motioned to the place beside her.
The accord which existed between these two was unusual because of the
total difference in their points of view on life and the habits of
thought which made each the negative pole of the other. However
unusual Markham may have appeared to a person of Olga Tcherny's
training, he was not an unusual young man in the ordinary sense. He
had always taken life seriously, from the hour when as a clerk in a
broker's office he had started to work at night at the League in New
York, with the intention of becoming a painter. He was no more
serious than thousands of other young men who plan their lives early
and live them up to specifications; but Olga Tcherny, who had flitted
a zig-zag butterfly course among the exotics, now found in the meadows
she had scorned a shrub quite to her liking. Markham was the most
refreshingly original person she had ever met. He always said exactly
what he thought and refused to speak at all unless he had something to
say. Those hours in the studio when he had painted her portrait had
been hours to remember, sound, sane hours in which they had discussed
many things not comprehended in her philosophy, when he had led her by
easy stages up the steep path he had climbed until she had gained,
from the pinnacle of his successes, a vista of what had lain beneath.
Unconsciously he had drawn upon her mentality until, surprised at its
own existence, it had awakened to life and responded to his. To make
her mental subjection the more complete, he had in his simplicity
peered like a child through all her disguises and painted her soul as
he saw it--as it was. The flattery was the more effectual because of
its subtlety and because she knew, as he did, that in it there was no
guile, no self-interest or sentimentality. And in return she could
have paid him no higher compliment than when coolly, almost coldly,
she told him of her life and what she had made of it.
She was very winning to-night--very gentle and womanly--more English
than French or Russian, more American than either. Neither of them
spoke for a long while. Such words as they could speak would have
taken something from the perfection of their background. But Markham
thought of her as he had frequently done, thankful again for the
benefits of her regard, the genuineness of which she had brought home
to him in many material ways.
To Olga alone there was a peril in the silence, a peril for the sanity
he had taught her, for the pact which she had made with herself. She
had eaten the bread and salt of his friendship and had given him hers.
He believed in her and she could not deceive him. She knew his nature
well. She had not been a student of men all her life for nothing. It
would have been so easy to lie to him, to befuddle and bewitch him, to
bring him to her feet by unfair means. But she had scorned to use
them. For her, John Markham had been taboo. But there was peril in
the silence. She sat looking into the wake of the moon in the water,
very quiet, tense and almost breathless.
"You're glad you came?" she asked at last in the tones of matter and
fact.
"Yes, I am. You've been too kind and patient with me, Olga."
He laid his hand over hers with a genuine impulse. It did not move
beneath his touch or return his pressure.
"Yes," she said coolly, "I think I have."
"Have I offended you?"
"No. Not at all--only disappointed me a little. I had such nice plans
for you."
He laughed.
"Olga, you're the most wonderful woman in the world. I don't deserve
your friendship. But I _did_ want to loaf--I worked pretty hard last
winter."
"Oh, you needn't evade me. I can't make you like my friends. But I
hoped you wouldn't disappoint them. Mrs. Berkley Hammond, the Gormeley
twins, and now Hermia--"
"Miss Challoner!" in surprise. "Her portrait! I thought she
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