om--and these influences were succeeded after a minute
(the minutes were very few and very short) by a definite motive which
presently had the force to make him step back behind the curtain. I may
add that it also had the force to make him avail himself for further
contemplation of a crevice formed by his gathering together the two
halves of the _portiere_. He was perfectly aware of what he was
about--he was for the moment an eavesdropper, a spy; but he was also
aware that a very odd business, in which his confidence had been trifled
with, was going forward, and that if in a measure it didn't concern him,
in a measure it very definitely did. His observation, his reflections,
accomplished themselves in a flash.

His visitors were in the middle of the room; Mrs. Capadose clung to her
husband, weeping, sobbing as if her heart would break. Her distress was
horrible to Oliver Lyon but his astonishment was greater than his horror
when he heard the Colonel respond to it by the words, vehemently
uttered, 'Damn him, damn him, damn him!' What in the world had happened?
Why was she sobbing and whom was he damning? What had happened, Lyon saw
the next instant, was that the Colonel had finally rummaged out his
unfinished portrait (he knew the corner where the artist usually placed
it, out of the way, with its face to the wall) and had set it up before
his wife on an empty easel. She had looked at it a few moments and
then--apparently--what she saw in it had produced an explosion of dismay
and resentment. She was too busy sobbing and the Colonel was too busy
holding her and reiterating his objurgation, to look round or look up.
The scene was so unexpected to Lyon that he could not take it, on the
spot, as a proof of the triumph of his hand--of a tremendous hit: he
could only wonder what on earth was the matter. The idea of the triumph
came a little later. Yet he could see the portrait from where he stood;
he was startled with its look of life--he had not thought it so
masterly. Mrs. Capadose flung herself away from her husband--she dropped
into the nearest chair, buried her face in her arms, leaning on a table.
Her weeping suddenly ceased to be audible, but she shuddered there as if
she were overwhelmed with anguish and shame. Her husband remained a
moment staring at the picture; then he went to her, bent over her, took
hold of her again, soothed her. 'What is it, darling, what the devil is
it?' he demanded.

Lyon heard her answer.