Lilámani read and re-read that letter curled among her cushions in the
deep window-seat of the studio, a tower room with tall windows looking
north, over jagged pine tops, to the open moor.

And while she read, Nevil stood at his easel, seizing and recording, the
unconscious grace of her pose, the rapt stillness of her face. He was
never weary of painting her--never quite satisfied with the result;
always within an ace of achieving the one perfect picture that should
immortalise a gleam from her inner uncaptured loveliness--the essence of
personality that eternally foils the sense, while it sways the spirit.
Impossible, of course. One might as well try and catch the fragrance of
a rose, the bloom of an April dawn, or any other fragment of the world's
unseizable beauty But there remained the joy of pursuing--and pursuing,
not achieving, is the salt of life.

Something in her pose, her absorption--lips just parted, shadow of
lashes on her cheek, primrose-pale sari against the green velvet
curtain--had fired him, lit a spark of inspiration....

If he made a decent thing of it, Roy should have it for a companion to
the Antibes pastel: her two aspects--wife of Nevil; mother of Roy. Later
on, the boy would understand. His star stood higher than usual, just
then. For Nevil had detested writing that letter of rebuke; had not
dared show it to his wife; and Roy had taken it like a man. No more
lamentations, so far. Certainly not on this occasion, judging by her
rapt look, her complete absorption that gave him the chance of catching
her unawares.

For, in truth, she was unaware; lost to everything but the joy of