He fancied himself
painting Elaine on just such tranquil summer afternoons under a soft
light. And oh! the joys of long walks, discreet gossip, and dinners at a
well-served table with a few chosen friends. Was he, after all, longing
for the flesh-pots of the philistine--he, Hubert Falcroft, who had
patrolled the boulevards like other sportsmen of midnight!
At last the picture began to glow with that inner light he had so
patiently pursued. Elaine Mineur looked at him from the canvas with
veiled sweetness, a smile almost enigmatic lurking about her lips.
Deepen a few lines and her expression would be one of contented
sleekness. _That_ Hubert had missed by a stroke. It was in her eyes that
her chief glory abided. They were pathetic without resignation, liquid
without humidity, indescribable in colouring and form. Their full cup
and the accents which experience had graven under them were something he
had never dreamed of realizing. It was a Cosway; but a Cosway broadened
and without a hint of genteel namby-pamby or overelaborate finesse.
Hubert was fairly satisfied.
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