I felt Lillo at my shoulder again.
"You knew her, I suppose?"
I had to stop and think. Why, of course I'd known her: a silent handsome
girl, showy yet ineffective, whom I had seen without seeing the winter
that society had capitulated to Vard. Still looking at the crayon, I tried
to trace some connection between the Miss Vard I recalled and the grave
young seraph of Lillo's sketch. Had the Vards bewitched him? By what
masterstroke of suggestion had he been beguiled into drawing the terrible
father as a barber's block, the commonplace daughter as this memorable
creature?
"You don't remember much about her? No, I suppose not. She was a quiet
girl and nobody noticed her much, even when--" he paused with a smile--
"you were all asking Vard to dine."
I winced. Yes, it was true--we had all asked Vard to dine. It was some
comfort to think that fate had made him expiate our weakness.
Lillo put the sketch on the mantel-shelf and drew his arm-chair to the
fire.
"It's cold to-night. Take another cigar, old man; and some whiskey? There
ought to be a bottle and some glasses in that cupboard behind you... help
yourself..."
II
About Vard's portrait? (he began.) Well, I'll tell you. It's a queer
story, and most people wouldn't see anything in it. My enemies might say
it was a roundabout way of explaining a failure; but you know better than
that. Mrs. Mellish was right. Between me and Vard there could be no
question of failure.
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