"
But Gyp shook her head.
"No. Come and look at my very favourite picture 'The Death of Procris.'
What is it makes one love it so? Procris is out of drawing, and not
beautiful; the faun's queer and ugly. What is it--can you tell?"
Summerhay looked not at the picture, but at her. In aesthetic sense, he
was not her equal. She said softly:
"The wonder in the faun's face, Procris's closed eyes; the dog, and the
swans, and the pity for what might have been!"
Summerhay repeated:
"Ah, for what might have been! Did you enjoy 'Pagliacci'?"
Gyp shivered.
"I think I felt it too much."
"I thought you did. I watched you."
"Destruction by--love--seems such a terrible thing! Now show me your
favourites. I believe I can tell you what they are, though."
"Well?"
"The 'Admiral,' for one."
"Yes. What others?"
"The two Bellini's."
"By Jove, you ARE uncanny!"
Gyp laughed.
"You want decision, clarity, colour, and fine texture. Is that right?
Here's another of MY favourites."
On a screen was a tiny "Crucifixion" by da Messina--the thinnest of high
crosses, the thinnest of simple, humble, suffering Christs, lonely, and
actual in the clear, darkened landscape.
"I think that touches one more than the big, idealized sort. One feels
it WAS like that. Oh! And look--the Francesca's! Aren't they lovely?"
He repeated:
"Yes; lovely!" But his eyes said: "And so are you.
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