Could have? I did--brushed the face in one day from memory;
it was the very man! I painted it out before she came: I couldn't bear to
have her see it. I had the feeling that I held her faith in him in my
hands, carrying it like a brittle object through a jostling mob; a hair's-
breadth swerve and it was in splinters.
When she wasn't there I tried to reason myself out of these subtleties. My
business was to paint Vard as he was--if his daughter didn't mind his
looks, why should I? The opportunity was magnificent--I knew that by the
way his face had leapt out of the canvas at my first touch. It would have
been a big thing. Before every sitting I swore to myself I'd do it; then
she came, and sat near him, and I--didn't.
I knew that before long she'd notice I was shirking the face. Vard himself
took little interest in the portrait, but she watched me closely, and one
day when the sitting was over she stayed behind and asked me when I meant
to begin what she called "the likeness." I guessed from her tone that the
embarrassment was all on my side, or that if she felt any it was at having
to touch a vulnerable point in my pride. Thus far the only doubt that
troubled her was a distrust of my ability. Well, I put her off with any
rot you please: told her she must trust me, must let me wait for the
inspiration; that some day the face would come; I should see it suddenly--
feel it under my brush... The poor child believed me: you can make a woman
believe almost anything she doesn't quite understand.
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