servative and reassuring evidences of this man who had always been; as she put it, “never quite here.” It was as if she felt that now it was at last possible to make a definite reality of him. He could be fixed. And as he was fixed he would stay. Never more would he be able to come in and with an almost expressionless glance wither the interpretation she had imposed upon him. She was finding much comfort in this task of reconstruction. She had gathered together in the drawing-room every presentable portrait she had been able to find of him. He had never, she said, sat to a painter, but there was an early pencil sketch done within a couple of years of their marriage; there was a number of photographs, several of which—she wanted the doctor’s advice upon this point—she thought might be enlarged; there was a statuette done by some woman artist who had once beguiled him into a sitting. There was also a painting she had had worked up from a photograph and some notes. She flitted among these memorials, going from one to the other, undecided which to make the standard portrait. “That painting, I think, is most like,” she said: “as he was before the war. But the war and the Commission changed him,—worried him and aged him.... I grudged him to that Commission. He let it worry him frightfully.”
“It meant very much to him,” said Dr. Martineau.
