reaths would certainly soon clear away, dispersed
by a rising sun. The whole scene would be stripped of its mystery. The
mountain sides, the valley stream and the grazing sheep would be seen
clear and bare in the merciless light of a summer morning. The painter
had chosen the moment while the mystery of dawn endured. I felt that he
feared the passing of it, that he shrank from the inevitable coming of
the hour when everything would be clear and all the outlines sharp,
when the searching sun would tear away the compassionate coverings, when
nature would appear less beautiful than his heart hoped it was. It was
with this picture, with this and one other, that Ascher chose to live.

I moved round the room, turning on yet other lights. Over Ascher's
writing desk hung a full length portrait of a woman, of Mrs. Ascher,
but painted many years ago. I have no idea who the artist was but he had
seen his sitter in no common way. The girl, she was no more than a girl
when the picture was painted, stood facing me from the canvas. She was
dressed in a long, trailing, pale green robe. Her hands were folded in
front of her. Her head was a little thrown back, so that her neck was
visible. Her skin, even then in the early days of her womanhood, was
almost colourless. The red colour of her hair saved the picture from
deathly coldness, contrasting sharply with the mass of pale green
drapery and the pallid skin.

I have never thought of Mrs. Ascher as a beautiful woman or one who at
any time of her life could have been beautiful. But the artist, whoever
he was, had seen in her a singular alluring charm. I cannot imagine that
I could ever have been affected by her even if I had seen her as the
artist did, as no doubt Ascher did. I like normal people and common
things. I should have been afraid of the woman in the picture. I am in
no way like Keats' "Knight at Arms." I should simply have run away from
the "Belle Dame sans merci," and no amount of fairy songs or manna dew
would have enabled her to have me in thrall. But I could understand how
Ascher, who evidently has a taste for that kind of thing, might have
been fascinated by the morbid beauty of the girl in the picture. I could
understand how the fascination might become an enduring thing; a great
love; how Ascher would still be drawn to the woman long after the
elfishness of girlhood passed away. The soul would still remain gleaming
out of those narrow eyes.

The clock chimed close besi