Even
then I felt a pang at the use to which fate had put the mountain-pool of
Miss Vard's spirit, and an uneasy sense that my own reflection there was
not one to linger over. It was odd that I should have scrupled to deceive,
on one small point, a girl already so hugely cheated; perhaps it was the
completeness of her delusion that gave it the sanctity of a religious
belief. At any rate, a distinct sense of discomfort tempered the
satisfaction with which, a day or two later, I heard from her that her
father had consented to give me a few sittings.
I'm afraid my scruples vanished when I got him before my easel. He was
immense, and he was unexplored. From my point of view he'd never been done
before--I was his Cortez. As he talked the wonder grew. His daughter came
with him, and I began to think she was right in saying that he kept his
best for her. It wasn't that she drew him out, or guided the conversation;
but one had a sense of delicate vigilance, hardly more perceptible than
one of those atmospheric influences that give the pulses a happier turn.
She was a vivifying climate. I had meant to turn the talk to public
affairs, but it slipped toward books and art, and I was faintly aware of
its being kept there without undue pressure. Before long I saw the value
of the diversion. It was easy enough to get at the political Vard: the
other aspect was rarer and more instructive. His daughter had described
him as a scholar.
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