drawing in a new light.

He was muttering "It is genuine enough," when his servant opened the
door--"Sir Owen Asher."

"I see you have hung up the drawing. It looks very well, doesn't it.
You'll never regret having taken my advice."

"Taken your advice!" Harding was about to answer. "But what is the
use in irritating the poor man? He is so much in love he hardly
knows what he is saying. Owen Asher advising me as to what I should
buy!"

Owen went over and looked into Harding's Ingres.

"Every time one sees it one likes it better." And they talked about
Ingres for some time, until Owen's thoughts went back to Evelyn, and
looking from the portrait by Ingres to the drawing by Boucher he
seemed suddenly to lose control; tears rose to his eyes, and Harding
watched him, wondering whither Owen's imagination carried him. "Is
he far away in Paris, hearing her sing for the first time to Madame
Savelli? Or is he standing with her looking over the bulwarks of the
_Medusa_, seeing the shape of some Greek island dying in the
twilight?" And Harding did not speak, feeling the lover's meditation
to be sacred. Owen flung himself into an arm-chair, and without
withdrawing his eyes from the picture, said, relying on Harding's
friendship:

"It is very like her, it is really very like her. I am much obliged
to you, Harding, for having bought it. I shall come here to see it