Her question disconcerted the doctor very much. “You mean Lady Hardy?” he asked. “She doesn’t paint.”
“No, no. I mean, did she get all these things together?”
“Naturally,” said Dr. Martineau.
“None of them are a bit like him. They are like blows aimed at his memory. Not one has his life in it. How could she do it? Look at that idiot statuette!... He was extraordinarily difficult to get. I have burnt every photograph I had of him. For fear that this would happen; that he would go stiff and formal—just as you have got him here. I have been trying to sketch him almost all the time since he died. But I can’t get him back. He’s gone.”
She turned to the doctor again. She spoke to him, not as if she expected him to understand her, but because she had to say these things which burthened her mind to someone. “I have done hundreds of sketches. My room is littered with them. When you turn them over he seems to be lurking among them. But not one of them is like him.”
She was trying to express something beyond her power. “It is as if someone had suddenly turned out the light.”
She followed the doctor upstairs. “This was his study,” the doctor explained.
“I know it. I came here once,” she said.
