Slowly the blinding tears welled up and hid the
portrait.
Oh, how could she have thought such a thing!
It was like sacrilege even to dream of this bright,
far-off spirit, bound to the sordid miseries of life.
Surely the gods had loved him a little, and had let
him die young! Better a thousand times that he
should pass into utter nothingness than that he
should live and be the Gadfly--the Gadfly, with
his faultless neckties and his doubtful witticisms,
his bitter tongue and his ballet girl! No, no! It
was all a horrible, senseless fancy; and she had
vexed her heart with vain imaginings. Arthur
was dead.
"May I come in?" asked a soft voice at the
door.
She started so that the portrait fell from her
hand, and the Gadfly, limping across the room,
picked it up and handed it to her.
"How you startled me!" she said.
"I am s-so sorry. Perhaps I am disturbing
you?"
"No. I was only turning over some old
things."
She hesitated for a moment; then handed him
back the miniature.
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