And still he smiled,
while the fiends of envy and malice made havoc in his soul.
"My glorious Angela!" he said, "My bride, my beautiful one! A
veritable queen, to whom nations shall pay homage!" He threw one arm
round her waist and drew her somewhat roughly to him. "You must not
be vexed with me, sweetheart!--the world is a cruel world, and
always doubts great ability in woman! I only prepare you for what
most people will say. But _I_ do not doubt!--I know your power, and
triumph in it!" He paused a moment, breathing quickly,--his eyes
were fixed on the picture,--then he said, "If I may venture to
criticise--there is a shadow--there, at the left hand side of the
canvas--do you not see?"
She disengaged herself from his clasp.
"Where?" she asked, in a voice from which all spirit and hopefulness
had fled.
"You are sad? My Angela, have I discouraged you? Forgive me! I do
not find fault,--this is a mere nothing,--you may not agree with
me,--but does not that dark cloud make somewhat too deep a line near
the faded roses? It may be only an effect of this waning light,--but
I do think that line is heavy and might be improved. Be patient with
me!--I only criticise to make perfection still more perfect!"
Listlessly she moved closer to the picture, turning away from him as
she did so.
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