But Tracy was not deep enough or suspicious enough to think of these things. He noticed only one particular; that the weather was always sunny when a visit _began_. No matter how much it might cloud up later, it always began with a clear sky. He couldn’t explain this curious fact to himself, he merely knew it to be a fact. The truth of the matter was, that by the time Tracy had been out of Sally’s sight six hours she was so famishing for a sight of him that her doubts and suspicions were all consumed away in the fire of that longing, and so always she came into his presence as surprisingly radiant and joyous as she wasn’t when she went out of it. In circumstances like these a growing portrait runs a good many risks. The portrait of Sellers, by Tracy, was fighting along, day by day, through this mixed weather, and daily adding to itself ineradicable signs of the checkered life it was leading. It was the happiest portrait, in spots, that was ever seen; but in other spots a damned soul looked out from it; a soul that was suffering all the different kinds of distress there are, from stomach ache to rabies. But Sellers liked it. He said it was just himself all over—a portrait that sweated moods from every pore, and no two moods alike. He said he had as many different kinds of emotions in him as a jug. It was a kind of a deadly work of art, maybe, but it was a starchy picture for show; for it was life size, full length, and represented the American earl in a peer’s scarlet robe, with the three ermine bars indicative of an earl’s rank, and on the gray head an earl’s coronet, tilted just a wee bit to one side in a most gallus and winsome way. When Sally’s weather was sunny the portrait made Tracy chuckle, but when her weather was overcast it disordered his mind and stopped the circulation of his blood. Late one night when the sweethearts had been having a flawless visit together, Sally’s interior devil began to work his specialty, and soon the conversation was drifting toward the customary rock. Presently, in the midst of Tracy’s serene flow of talk, he felt a shudder which he knew was not his shudder, but exterior to his breast although immediately against it. After the shudder came sobs; Sally was crying. “Oh, my darling, what have I done—what have I said? It has happened again! What _have_ I done to wound you?” She disengaged herself from his arms and gave him a look of deep reproach. “What have you done? I will tell you what you have done. You have unwittingly revealed—oh, for the twentieth time, though I _could_ not believe it, _would_ not believe it!—that it is not me you love, but that foolish sham, my father’s imitation earldom; and you have broken my heart!” “Oh, my child, what are you saying! I never dreamed of such a thing.” “Oh, Howard, Howard, the things you have uttered when you were forgetting to guard your tongue, have betrayed you.”