“Ah, but that referred only to the marvellous expression of the face--so saturate--so devoured--with passion. You saw how Miss Gerald turned away from it with a shudder?” “Why did she do that?” said Markham. “Heaven knows,” said Glaston, with a little sneer. “Heaven knows,” said Markham, after a pause and without any sneer. “She could not understand it,” continued Glaston. “All that that face means cannot be apprehended in a glance. It has a significance of its own--it is a symbol of a passion that withers like a fire--a passion that can destroy utterly all the beauty of a life that might have been intense with beauty. You are not going away, are you?” Markham had risen from his seat and turned away his head, grasping the rail of the balcony. It was some moments before he started and looked round at the other man. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “I'm not going away, I am greatly interested. Yes, I caught a glimpse of the expression of the face.” “It is a miracle of power,” continued Glaston. “Miss Gerald felt, but she could not understand why she should feel, its power.” There was a long pause, during which Markham stared blankly across the square, and the other leant back in his chair and watched the curling of his cigar clouds through the still air. From the garrison at the castle there came to them the sound of a bugle-call. “I am greatly interested in that picture,” said Markham at length. “I should like to know all the details of its working out.” “The expression of the face----” “Ah, I know all of that. I mean the scene--that hill seen through the arch--the pavement of the oriental apartment--the--the figure--how did the painter bring them together?” “That is of little consequence in the study of the elements of the symbolism,” said Mr. Glaston. “Yes, of course it is; but still I should like to know.” “I really never thought of putting any question to the painter about these matters,” replied Glaston. “He had travelled in the East, and the kiosk was amongst his sketches; as for the model of the figure, if I do not mistake, I saw the study for the face in an old portfolio of his he brought from Sicily.” “Ah, indeed.” “But these are mere accidents in the production of the picture. The symbolism is the picture.” Again there was a pause, and the chatter of a couple of Malays in the street became louder, and then fainter, as the speakers drew near and passed away. “Glaston,” said Markham at length, “did you remove the pictures from Government House?” “They are in one of my rooms,” said Glaston. “Would you think it a piece of idle curiosity if I were to step upstairs and take a look at that particular work?” “You could not see it by lamplight. You can study them all in the morning.” “But I feel in the mood just now, and you know how much depends upon the mood.” “My room is open,” said Glaston. “But the idea that has possessed you is absurd.”