Instead of seating himself, Durand lifted the picture, still wrapped up, and set it upright on the table, so that it faced her.
'I heard,' he said in a low voice, 'so I did this for you from memory and a photograph.' There was a sudden crackling and tearing of the strong paper as he ripped it off with a single movement, and then there was absolute silence for some time.

Angela seemed not even to breathe, as she leaned forward with parted lips and unwinking, wondering eyes.
Then, without even a warning breath, a cry broke from her heart.
'He is not dead! You have seen him again! He is alive--they have cheated me!' Then she choked and leaned back, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth.
Instead of answering, the painter bent his head and looked down sideways at his own astounding handiwork, and for the second time in that year he was almost satisfied.

Presently, as Angela said nothing more, he was going to move the canvas, to show it in a better light, but she thought he meant to take it away.
'No!' she cried imperatively.

'Not yet! Let me see it--let me understand----' Her words died away and she was silent again, her eyes fixed on the portrait.

At last she rose, came forward, and laid both her thin hands on the narrow black and gold frame.
'I must have it,' she said.