While she spoke, slowly the Bishop saw, but at first he saw only a girl’s witch-face in the fire glow. “I will make you see this once, Henry Collinton--_me_! You look strange, Henry! As if you couldn’t guess what’s coming. Neither, I assure you, can I. You called me Lucy Dwight of the long ago,--and you’ll have to take the consequences! I like you to look strange, for then you don’t look old! Look young, Henry, and look at me! You are looking, I believe, at last, with open eyes,--looking at a woman, not a diocese. Henry, I might say in passing that I did not think once, on one afternoon we both recall,--but differently!--when we talked about a mission, that we should still be talking about that mission after sixty years. You will excuse my changing the subject from your work for a few moments, then, after sixty years! I’ve been a pretty good listener--take your turn!” She looked no longer at the Bishop, who watched her as if she were some Christmas sprite risen out of the red hearth. Her white old face, white-crowned, was touched to rose and gold by the fire flame. “Shall I draw you a portrait, Henry, of someone you have never seen? Yet it is a portrait on constant exhibition. It is shown to every guest in Westbury,--a private exhibition is called High Tea at Mrs. Hollister’s. People watch the guest when he sees the portrait; by its effect he is judged. People point out that the portrait is valuable historically, since it combines inseparably the style of sixty years ago with the style of to-day. That is because the picture has been retouched so carefully from year to year to fit the taste of the times. So the painting is seen to represent the sixty-year history of a town, even to costume,” she flashed a white hand from throat to skirt of her clinging black which looked at first sight so fresh from a fashion plate and was so carefully studied to fit no decade, and no person, but her own. “Who would ever have thought Lucy Dwight could have stepped into a picture and stayed there all her life? She did not expect to, once, but she made up her mind to it, later, when one day she looked in the glass and took stock of what was left to her. She was twenty then. “I am proud of the portrait, frankly. I have enjoyed making it. I haven’t had anything else to do, except, of course,” a ripple of laughter ran through her tone, “to listen! The portrait needed a frame, so I’ve made that, too. Your figure of speech was inaccurate, a while ago. I am not Westbury. Westbury is the frame; I am the portrait, the portrait of an interesting old woman, interesting to everybody but herself!”