A wave of colour surged over Roberta's face as she picked up the picture
to examine it. She had never thought again of the shot he had snapped;
he had never brought it to her. Instead he had put it into this
frame--she noted the frame, of carved ivory and choice beyond
question--and had placed it upon his desk. There were no other
photograph's of people in the room, not one. If she had found herself
one among many she might have had more--or less--reason for displeasure;
it was hard to say which. But to be the only one! Yet doubtless--in his
bedroom, the most intimate place of all, which she was not to see, would
be found his real treasures--photographs of beauties he had known,
married women, girls, actresses--She caught herself up!
Rosamond, eager over the colour-drawing, had taken it from its place on
the wall and gone with it across the hall to discuss its extraordinary
likeness with the old man, who had sent for little Gordon several times
during his stay at the Gray home and would be sure to appreciate the
resemblance. Roberta, again engaged with the portrait above the desk,
had not noticed her sister's departure.
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