ies. I will show them to
you.'

The collector warmed to his subject. He went away to fetch the portfolio
from the next room. His gait was somewhat jerky and uncertain, like that
of a man who already carries in his system the germ of paralysis, the
first touch of spinal disease; his body remained rigid without following
the movement of his limbs, like the body of an automaton.

Andrea Sperelli followed him with his eyes till he crossed the threshold
of the room. The moment he was alone, unspeakable anguish rent his soul.
This room, hung with dark-red damask, exactly like the one in which
Elena had received him two years ago, seemed to him tragic and sinister.
These were, perhaps, the very same hangings that had heard Elena say to
him that day, 'I love you.' The book-case was open, and he could see the
rows of obscene books, the bizarre bindings stamped with symbolic
decorations. On the wall hung the portrait of Lady Heathfield side by
side with a copy of Sir Joshua Reynolds's Nelly O'Brien. And the two
women looked out of the canvas with the same, self-same piercing
intensity, the same glow of passion, the same flame of sensual desire,
the same marvellous eloquence; each had a mouth that was ambiguous,
enigmatical, sibylline, the mouth of the insatiable absorber of souls;
and each had a brow of marble whiteness, immaculately, radiantly pure.

'Poor Redgrave!' said Lord Heathfield, returning with the portfolio of
drawings. 'There was a genius for you. There never was an erotic
imagination to equal his. Look! look! What style! What profound
knowledge of the potentialities of the human figure for expression.'

He left Andrea's side for a moment in order to close the door. Then he
returned to the table in the window and began turning over the
collection under Sperelli's eyes, talking without a pause, pointing out
with that ape-like finger the peculiar characteristics of each figure.

He spoke in his own language, beginning each sentence with an
interrogative intonation and ending with a monotonous irritating drop of
the voice. Certain words lacerated Andrea's ear like the sound of filing
iron or the shriek of a steel knife over a pane of glass.

And the drawings passed in review before him, appalling pictures which
revealed the terrible fever that had taken hold upon the artist's hand,
and the terrible madness that possessed his brain.

'Now here,' said Lord Heathfield, 'is the work which inspired these
masterpieces.