“Yes, yes,” said I.
“I quite understand, of course, your very chivalrous motives for not putting the blame on her at the time. The position was most awkward for you. You might perhaps have given me a hint—but I perfectly understand. And my wife, you will realise, was so very much upset—”
“Please,” I broke in, “do not blame her or yourself for a single moment.”
“Thank you. It is very kind of you to take it in this reasonable spirit: I cannot say how much I regret the misunderstanding. I hope you are very well and prosperous. You are quite a famous man now, of course. And married. Will you do me the honour to present me to your wife? I hope you will come and see us some day.”
I was not keen to make the introduction, but it could scarcely be avoided. The preposterous situation was there, and had to be imagined away. Mrs. Harrison glowed. For the first time I saw her in full prismatic loveliness, soaked and vibrating with colour and light. I asked her what she thought of the show.
“We haven’t seen much of it yet,” she said, laughing, “we came straight to see the picture. Is it going to be the picture of the year as they call it, do you think, Mr. Munting?”
“It looks rather like it,” said I.
“Fancy that! It does make me feel important—though, of course, I don’t count for anything, really. The painting is the thing, isn’t it!”
“The subject of the portrait counts for something, too,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t see how anybody can make a picture of one of those cow-faced people. Except a satirical one, of course. It’s the painter’s job to get the personality on the canvas, but what is he to do if there is no personality? Mr. Lathom …”