Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. Listen. “They have all been trying to turn my head. Brendon. Run along while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight. ’ She tossed her head. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me.
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