save his picture. But he did not feel as if he were losing it or cared not if he were, so much more did he feel that he was gaining a certitude. His old friend was ashamed of her husband, and he had made her so, and he had scored a great success, even though the picture had been reduced to rags. The revelation excited him so—as indeed the whole scene did—that when he came down the steps after the Colonel had gone he trembled with his happy agitation; he was dizzy and had to sit down a moment. The portrait had a dozen jagged wounds—the Colonel literally had hacked it to death. Lyon left it where it was, never touched it, scarcely looked at it; he only walked up and down his studio, still excited, for an hour. At the end of this time his good woman came to recommend that he should have some luncheon; there was a passage under the staircase from the offices.
'Ah, the lady and gentleman have gone, sir? I didn't hear them.'
'Yes; they went by the garden.'
But she had stopped, staring at the picture on the easel. 'Gracious, how you 'ave served it, sir!'
Lyon imitated the Colonel. 'Yes, I cut it up—in a fit of disgust.'
'Mercy, after all your trouble! Because they weren't pleased, sir?'
'Yes; they weren't pleased.'
'Well, they must be very grand! Blessed if I would!'
'Have it chopped up; it will do to light fires,' Lyon said.
He returned to the country by the 3.30 and a
