hat he loved
her, but only that she should give him some sign she was sorry. Instead
of this, for the present, she contented herself with exhibiting her
little daughter to him. The child was beautiful and had the prettiest
eyes of innocence he had ever seen: which did not prevent him from
wondering whether she told horrid fibs. This idea gave him much
entertainment--the picture of the anxiety with which her mother would
watch as she grew older for the symptoms of heredity. That was a nice
occupation for Everina Brant! Did she lie to the child herself, about
her father--was that necessary, when she pressed her daughter to her
bosom, to cover up his tracks? Did he control himself before the little
girl--so that she might not hear him say things she knew to be other
than he said? Lyon doubted this: his genius would be too strong for
him, and the only safety for the child would be in her being too stupid
to analyse. One couldn't judge yet--she was too young. If she should
grow up clever she would be sure to tread in his steps--a delightful
improvement in her mother's situation! Her little face was not shifty,
but neither was her father's big one: so that proved nothing.

Lyon reminded his friends more than once of their promise that Amy
should sit to him, and it was only a question of his leisure. The desire
grew in him to paint the Colonel also--an operation from which he
promised himself a rich private satisfaction. He would draw him out, he
would set him up in that totality about which he had talked with Sir
David, and none but the initiated would know. They, however, would rank
the picture high, and it would be indeed six rows deep--a masterpiece of
subtle characterisation, of legitimate treachery. He had dreamed for
years of producing something which should bear the stamp of the
psychologist as well as of the painter, and here at last was his
subject. It was a pity it was not better, but that was not _his_ fault.
It was his impression that already no one drew the Colonel out more than
he, and he did it not only by instinct but on a plan. There were moments
when he was almost frightened at the success of his plan--the poor
gentleman went so terribly far. He would pull up some day, look at Lyon
between the eyes--guess he was being played upon--which would lead to
his wife's guessing it also. Not that Lyon cared much for that however,
so long as she failed to suppose (as she must) that she was a part of
his joke. He forme