It had been vaguely expected that the great boss's portrait
would have the zest of an incriminating document, the scandalous
attraction of secret memoirs; and instead, it was as insipid as an
obituary. It was as though the artist had been in league with his sitter,
had pledged himself to oppose to the lust for post-mortem "revelations" an
impassable blank wall of negation. The public was resentful, the critics
were aggrieved. Even Mrs. Mellish had to lay down her arms.
"Yes, the portrait of Vard _is_ a failure," she admitted, "and I've never
known why. If he'd been an obscure elusive type of villain, one could
understand Lillo's missing the mark for once; but with that face from the
pit--!"
She turned at the announcement of a name which our discussion had drowned,
and found herself shaking hands with Lillo.
The pretty woman started and put her hands to her curls; Cumberton dropped
a condescending eyelid (he never classed himself by recognizing degrees in
the profession), and Mrs. Mellish, cheerfully aware that she had been
overheard, said, as she made room for Lillo--
"I wish you'd explain it."
Lillo smoothed his beard and waited for a cup of tea. Then, "Would there
be any failures," he said, "if one could explain them?"
"Ah, in some cases I can imagine it's impossible to seize the type--or to
say why one has missed it. Some people are like daguerreotypes; in certain
lights one can't see them at all.
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