"
Bertha smiled approvingly.
"I've just finished a portrait--a millionaire's wife, Lady
Rockett," went on Franks. "Of course it was my Slummer that got me
the job. Women have been raving about that girl's head; and it isn't
bad, though I say it. I had to take a studio at a couple of days'
notice--couldn't ask Lady Rockett to come and sit at that place of
mine in Battersea; a shabby hole. She isn't really anything out of
the way, as a pretty woman; but I've made her--well, you'll see it
at some exhibition this winter, if you care to. Pleased? Isn't she
pleased! And her husband, the podgy old millionaire baronet, used to
come every day and stare in delight. To tell you the truth, I think
it's rather a remarkable bit of painting. I didn't quite know I
could turn out anything so _chic_. I shouldn't be surprised if I
make a specialty of women's portraits. How many men can flatter, and
still keep a good likeness? That's what I've done. But wait till you
see the thing."
Bertha was bubbling over with amusement; for, whilst the artist
talked, she thought of Rosamund's farewell entreaty, that she would
do her best, if occasion offered, to strengthen Norbert Franks under
his affliction, even by depreciatory comment on the faithless girl;
there came into her mind, too, those many passages of Rosamund's
letters where Franks was spoken of in terms of profoundest
compassion mingled with dark remorse. Perhaps her smile, which
quivered on the verge of laughter, betrayed the nature of her
thought.
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