Sir Charles laughed at the trouble Trefusis took to prove his case, and said soothingly, “My dear fellow, kings are used to it, and expect it, and like it.”
“And probably do not see themselves as I see them, any more than common people do,” assented Trefusis.
“What an exquisite face!” exclaimed Erskine suddenly, catching sight of a photograph in a rich gold and coral frame on a miniature easel draped with ruby velvet. Trefusis turned quickly, so evidently gratified that Sir Charles hastened to say, “Charming!” Then, looking at the portrait, he added, as if a little startled, “It certainly is an extraordinarily attractive face.”
“Years ago,” said Trefusis, “when I saw that face for the first time, I felt as you feel now.”
Silence ensued, the two visitors looking at the portrait, Trefusis looking at them.
“Curious style of beauty,” said Sir Charles at last, not quite so assuredly as before.
Trefusis laughed unpleasantly. “Do you recognize the artist — the enthusiastic amateur — in her?” he said, opening another drawer and taking out a bundle of drawings, which he handed to be examined.
“Very clever. Very clever indeed,” said Sir Charles. “I should like to meet the lady.”
“I have often been on the point of burning them,” said Trefusis; “but there they are, and there they are likely to remain. The portrait has been much admired.”
“Can you give us an introduction to the original, old fellow?” said Erskine.
“No, happily. She is dead.”
Disagreeably shocked, they looked at him for a moment with aversion. Then Erskine, turning with pity and disappointment to the picture, said, “Poor girl! Was she married?”
“Yes. To me.”
“Mrs. Trefusis!” exclaimed Sir Charles. “Ah! Dear me!”
Erskine, with proof before him that it was possible for a beautiful girl to accept Trefusis, said nothing.
“I keep her portrait constantly before me to correct my natural amativeness. I fell in love with her and married her. I have fallen in love once or twice since but a glance at my lost Hetty has cured me of the slightest inclination to marry.”
Sir Charles did not reply. It occurred to him that Lady Brandon’s portrait, if nothing else were left of her, might be useful in the same way.
“Come, you will marry again one of these days,” said Erskine, in a forced tone of encouragement.
“It is possible. Men should marry, especially rich men. But I assure you I have no present intention of doing so.”
Erskine’s color deepened, and he moved away to the table where the albums lay.
“This is the collection of photographs I spoke of,” said Trefusis, following him and opening one of the books. “I took many of them myself under great difficulties with regard to light — the only difficulty that money could not always remove. This is a view of my father’s house — or rather one of his houses. It cost seventy-five thousand pounds.”
“Very handsome indeed,” said Sir Charles, secretly disgusted at being invited to admire a photograph, such as house agents exhibit, of a vulgarly designed country house, merely because it had cost seventy-five thousand pounds. The figures were actually written beneath the picture.
“This is the drawingroom, and this one of the best bedrooms. In the righthand corner of the mount you will see a note of the cost of the furniture, fittings, napery, and so forth. They were of the most luxurious description.”
“Very interesting,” said Sir Charles, hardly disguising the irony of the comment.
“Here is a view — this is the first of my own attempts — of the apartment of one of the under servants. It is comfortable and spacious, and solidly furnished.”
“So I perceive.”
“These are the stables. Are they not handsome?”
“Palatial. Quite palatial.”
“There is every luxury that a horse could desire, including plenty of valets to wait on him. You are noting the figures, I hope. There is the cost of the building and the expenditure per horse per annum.”
“I see.”
“Here is the exterior of a house. What do you think of it?”
“It is rather picturesque in its dilapidation.”
“Picturesque! Would you like to live in it?”
“No,” said Erskine. “I don’t see anything very picturesque about it. What induced you to photograph such a wretched old rookery?”
“Here is a view of the best room in it. Photography gives you a fair idea of the broken flooring and patched windows, but you must imagine the dirt and the odor of the place. Some of the stains are weather stains, others came from smoke and filth. The landlord of the house holds it from a peer and lets it out in tenements. Three families occupied that room when I photographed it. You will see by the figures in the corner that it is more profitable to the landlord than an average house in Mayfair. Here is the cellar, let to a family for one and sixpence a week, and considered a bargain. The sun never shines there, of course. I took it by artificial light. You may add to the rent the cost of enough bad beer to make the tenant insensible to the filth of the place. Beer is the chloroform that enables the laborer to endure the severe operation of living; that is why we can always assure one another over our wine that the rascal’s misery is due to his habit of drinking. We are down on him for it, because, if he could bear his life without beer, we should save his beer-money — get him for lower wages. In short, we should be richer and he soberer. Here is the yard; the arrangements are indescribable. Seven of the inhabitants of that house had worked for years in my father’s mill. That is, they had created a considerable part of the vast sums of money for drawing your attention to which you were disgusted with me just now.”
“Not at all,” said Sir Charles faintly.
“You can see how their condition contrasts with that of my father’s horses. The seven men to whom I have alluded, with three hundred others, were thrown destitute upon the streets by this.” (Here he turned over a leaf and displayed a photograph of an elaborate machine.) “It enabled my father to dispense with their services, and to replace them by a handful of women and children. He had bought the patent of the machine for fifty pounds from the inventor, who was almost ruined by the expenses of his ingenuity, and would have sacrificed anything for a handful of ready money. Here is a portrait of my father in his masonic insignia. He believed that freemasons generally get on in the world, and as the main object of his life was to get on, he joined them, and wanted me to do the same. But I object to pretended secret societies and hocus pocus, and would not. You see what he was — a portly, pushing, egotistical tradesman. Mark the successful man, the merchant prince with argosies on every sea, the employer of thousands of hands, the munificent contributor to public charities, the churchwarden, the member of parliament, and the generous patron of his relatives his self-approbation struggling with the instinctive sense of baseness in the money-hunter, the ignorant and greedy filcher of the labor of others, the seller of his own mind and manhood for luxuries and delicacies that he was too lowlived to enjoy, and for the society of people who made him feel his inferiority at every turn.”
“And the man to whom you owe everything you possess,” said Erskine boldly.
“I possess very little. Everything he