is enough for him to read the
books he likes. I went with the intention of asking him to let me be of
some use, if I could. But it was a delicate matter, in any case, and I
found that he understood me without plain speech: he conveyed his
answer distinctly enough. No, I sincerely think that he has reached
that point of resignation at which a man dreads to be disturbed. He
spoke with emotion of Mrs. Ackroyd; she is invaluable to him, I saw.'

'She is a true-hearted woman.'

Egremont let a minute pass, then said:

'You will show me the portrait?'

'Certainly. It hangs in my bedroom; I will fetch it.'

She went and returned quickly, carrying a red crayon drawing framed in
plain oak. In the corner was a well-known signature, that of one of the
few living artists to whom one would appeal with confidence for the
execution of a task such as this, a man whom success has not
vulgarised, and who is still of opinion that the true artist will
oftener find his inspiration in a London garret than amid the banality
of the plutocrat's drawing-room. The work was of course masterly in
execution; it was no less admirable as a portrait. In those few lines
of chalk, Thyrza lived. He had divined the secret of the girl's soul,
that gift of passionate imagination which in her early years sunk her
in hour-long reverie, and later burned her life away. The mood embodied
was one so characteristic of Thyrza that one marvelled at the insight
which had evoked it from a dead face; she was not happy, she was net
downcast; her eyes _saw_ something, something which stirred her being,
something for which she yearned, passionately, yet with knowledge that
it was for ever forbidden to her. A face of infinite pathos, which drew
tears to the eyes, yet was unutterably sweet to gaze upon.

Holding the picture, Egremont turned to his companion, and said in a
subdued voice,

'This was Thyrza?'

'Her very self.'

'He knew her story?'

'The bare facts, of course without names, without details. He would
take nothing for the original drawing--Lydia has it--and nothing for
this copy which he made me. He said I had done him a great kindness.'

'Oh, if one could be a man like that!'

The words answered to his thoughts, yet implied something more than
their plain meaning. They uttered more than one regret, more than one
aspiration.

'Let me take it, Walter.'

'One moment!--This was Thyrza?'

'Let me take it.'

'Tell me--has Miss Newthorpe seen it?'