stood up on the chair, and lifted down the photograph. It left a big pale place on the greenish wallpaper.
"No use dusting it now," he said, setting the thing against the wall.
He went to the scullery, and returned with hammer and pincers. Sitting where he had sat before, he started to tear off the backpaper from the big frame, and to pull out the springs that held the backboard in position, working with the immediate quiet absorption that was characteristic of him.
He soon had the nails out: then he pulled out the backboards, then the enlargement itself, in its solid white mount. He looked at the photograph with amusement.
"Shows me for what I was, a young curate, and her for what she was, a bully," he said. "The prig and the bully!"
"Let me look!" said Connie.
He did look indeed very clean-shaven and very clean altogether, one of the clean young men of twenty years ago. But even in the photograph his eyes were alert and dauntless. And the woman was not altogether a bully, though her jowl was heavy. There was a touch of appeal in her.
"One never should keep these things," said Connie.
"That one shouldn't! One should never have them made!"
He broke the cardboard photograph and mount over his knee, and when it was small enough, put it on the fire.
"It'll spoil the fire, though," he said.
The glass and the backboards he carefully took upstairs.
The frame he knocked asunder with a few blows of the hammer, making the stucco fly. Then he took the pieces into the scullery.
"We'll burn that tomorrow," he said. "There's too much plaster-moulding on it."
Having cleared away, he sat down.
"Did you love your wife?" she asked him.
"Love?" he said. "Did you love Sir Clifford?"
But she was not going to be put off.
"But you cared for her?" she insisted.
"Cared?" he grinned.
"Perhaps you care for her now," she said.
