He wrote to Betty; he wrote to Lady Wallingford. He offered, after a
slight struggle with his admiration of himself, to suppress the picture;
the admiration just managed to substitute "suppress" for "destroy". It
was still worth while trying to save Betty and the picture too.
He was not, in fact, much different from any man, but the possibilities
slowly opened to him were more rare. There shaped itself gradually in
his mind a fame beyond any poet's and a domination beyond any king's.
But it was fame and domination that he desired, as they did. That his
magical art extended where theirs could never reach was his luck. The
understanding of his reach had come when he first assisted at a
Presently Lady Wallingford heard his voice near her. It said: "You
didn't tell me she was so enamoured. It doesn't matter. I've found her
in time." She moved her hand. He was standing by her, looking over to
Betty where now she sat quietly in her chair, her eyes open, her body
Far away, in London's mortal measurement, but brief time enough
immortally, the two dead girls walked. It was not, to them, so very long
since they had left the Parka few days or even less. But Evelyn had
reached what would have been on earth the point of exhaustion from
tears; there was here no such exhaustion, but as if by a kind of
reflexive action she stopped.
In the morning he made haste to leave. He was indeed on the point of
doing so when Jonathan rang him up. Jonathan wanted to tell him about
the Clerk's visit, and the Clerk's approval of the painting. Richard did
his best to pay attention, and was a little arrested by the mere
unexpectedness of the tale. He said, with a serious sympathy: "But that
makes everything much simpler, doesn't it? He'll deal with Lady
Wallingford, I suppose?"