In an idle moment I had sketched the
head, as I remembered it, on a sheet of paper, and now I took it from my
pocket and handed it to her. We were standing near a port-hole of the
music saloon, from which light streamed.
"That is the head," said I.
She deliberately placed the paper in the belt of light, and, looking at
it, remarked mechanically: "This is the head, is it?" She showed no
change of countenance, and handed it back to me as if she had seen no
likeness. "It is very interesting," she said, "but one would think you
might make better use of your time than by surreptitiously sketching
portraits from sick men's breasts. One must have plenty of leisure to do
that sort of thing, I should think. Be careful that you do not get into
mischief, Dr. Marmion." She laughed. "Besides, where was the special
peculiarity in that portrait that you should treasure it in pencil so
conventionally?--Your drawing is not good.--Where was the point or need?"
"I have no right to reply to that directly," I responded. "But this man's
life is not for always, and if anything happened to him it would seem
curious to strangers to find that on his breast--because, of course, more
than I would see it there.
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