"It was to set myself right with you on this point," I added,
"that I have visited you at such an hour."
She remained silent. I took a few turns about the familiar room
that was filled with the associations of many years. The piano
we chose together. The copy of the Botticelli Tondo--the crowned
Madonna of the Uffizi--I gave her in Florence. We had ransacked
London together to find the Chippendale bookcase; and on its
shelves stood books that had formed a bond between us, and copies
of old reviews containing my fugitive contributions. A spurious
Japanese dragon in fa‹ence, an inartistic monstrosity dear to her
heart, at which I had often railed, grinned forgivingly at me
from the mantel-piece. I have never realised how closely bound
up with my habits was this drawing-room of Judith's. I stopped
once more by her side.
"I can't leave you altogether, dear," I said, gently. "A bit of
myself is in this room."
Her bosom shook with unhappy laughter.
"A bit?" Then she turned suddenly on me. "Are you simply dull
or sheerly cruel?"
"I am dull," said I.
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