should have thought you could make something screamingly funny.”
“How oddly you talk of him! Somehow I can only see his beautiful, kind eyes and his tender mouth. I would as soon do a caricature of him as a parody on a poem I loved.”
Margaret took the portfolio in which Susie kept her sketches. She caught the look of alarm that crossed her friend’s face, but Susie had not the courage to prevent her from looking. She turned the drawings carelessly and presently came to a sheet upon which, in a more or less finished state, were half a dozen heads of Arthur. Pretending not to see it, she went on to the end. When she closed the portfolio Susie gave a sigh of relief.
“I wish you worked harder,” said Margaret, as she put the sketches down. “I wonder you don’t do a head of Arthur as you can’t do a caricature.”
“My dear, you mustn’t expect everyone to take such an overpowering interest in that young man as you do.”
The answer added a last certainty to Margaret’s suspicion. She told herself bitterly that Susie was no less a liar than she. Next day, when the other was out, Margaret looked through the portfolio once more, but the sketches of Arthur had disappeared. She was seized on a sudden with furious anger because Susie dared to love the man who loved her.
The web in which Oliver Haddo enmeshed her was woven with skilful intricacy. He took each part of her character separately and fortified with
