Bessie gave the kiss promptly, whispering, as she did so, "I was so angry I
rubbed out that picture with the turpentine. You aren't angry, are you?"
"What? Say that again." The man's hand had closed on her wrist.
"I rubbed it out with turps and the knife," faltered Bessie. "I thought you"d
only have to do it over again. You did do it over again, didn't you? Oh, let go
of my wrist; you're hurting me."
"Isn't there anything left of the thing?"
"N'nothing that looks like anything. I'm sorry--I didn't know you"d take on
about it; I only meant to do it in fun. You aren't going to hit me?"
"Hit you! No! Let's think."
He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but stood staring at the carpet.
Then he shook his head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of the stock-
whip cross his nose warns him back to the path on to the shambles that he would
escape. For weeks he had forced himself not to think of the Melancolia, because
she was a part of his dead life. With Bessie's return and certain new prospects
that had developed themselves, the Melancolia--lovelier in his imagination than
she had ever been on canvas--reappeared. By her aid he might have procured more
money wherewith to amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another taste of
an almost forgotten success.
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