Swift as his thoughts there had come a transformation in the picture before his eyes--a drawing of a curtain over it, like a golden veil; and then _she_ was standing there, and the gold had gathered about her in the wonderful mantle of her hair--shining, dishevelled hair--a bare, white arm thrust upward through its sheen, and _her_ face--taunting, unafraid--_laughing at him_! Good God! could he never kill that memory?
Was it upon him again to-night, clutching at his throat, stifling his heart, grinding him into the agony he could not fight--that vision of her--_his wife ?_ That girl on her rock, so like a slender flower! That woman in her room, so like a golden goddess! Both caught--unexpectedly! What devil-spirit had made him pick up this picture from the woman's seat?
What....
His fingers tightened upon the photograph, ready to tear it into bits.
The cardboard ripped an inch--and he stopped suddenly his impulse to destroy.

The girl was looking at him again from out of the picture--looking at him with clear, wide eyes, surprised at his weakness, startled by the fierceness of his assault upon her, wondering, amazed, questioning him! For the first time he saw what he had missed before--that _questioning_ in her eyes.

It was as if she were on the point of asking him something--as if her voice had just come from between her parted lips, or were about to come.

And for _him;_ that was it--for _him!_ His fingers relaxed.

He smoothed down the torn edge of the cardboard, as if it had been a wound in his own flesh.