Gisburn, beaming on him,
added for my enlightenment: "Jack is so morbidly sensitive to every
form of beauty."
Poor Jack! It had always been his fate to have women say such things
of him: the fact should be set down in extenuation. What struck me
now was that, for the first time, he resented the tone. I had seen
him, so often, basking under similar tributes--was it the conjugal
note that robbed them of their savour? No--for, oddly enough, it
became apparent that he was fond of Mrs. Gisburn--fond enough not to
see her absurdity. It was his own absurdity he seemed to be wincing
under--his own attitude as an object for garlands and incense.
"My dear, since I've chucked painting people don't say that stuff
about me--they say it about Victor Grindle," was his only protest,
as he rose from the table and strolled out onto the sunlit terrace.
I glanced after him, struck by his last word. Victor Grindle was, in
fact, becoming the man of the moment--as Jack himself, one might put
it, had been the man of the hour.
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