"That is exactly what I am afraid of," he said. "I am afraid--I confess it--I am afraid of many things about this portrait, and that is one of them. I began to paint myself once before--I have never told even Margery this--but I had to stop. But this afternoon several things made themselves irresistible, and I must try again. I was in bad health when I tried before, and one evening when I went into the studio and saw it--it was more than half finished--I had a sudden giddy feeling that I did not know which was me--the portrait or myself. I knew I was on the verge of something new and unknown, that if I went on with it I should go mad or go to heaven; and when I moved towards it I saw it--I _did_ see it--take a step towards me." "Looking-glass," said Margery. "Go on, dear." [Illustration: "'I AM AFRAID--I CONFESS IT'"] "Then I was frightened. I ran away. Next day I came back and tore the picture into shreds. But now I am braver. Besides, brave or not, I must do it. I lost a great deal, I know, by not going on with it, but I could not. Oh yes, you may laugh if you like, but it is true. You may even say that what I lost was exactly what one always does lose when one is afraid of doing something. One loses self-command. One is less able to do the thing next time one tries. I lost all that, but I lost a great deal more: I lost the chance of knowing what happens to a man if he parts with himself." "Don't be silly, Frank," said Margery, suddenly. "How can a man part with himself?" "In two ways at least. He may go mad or he may die. I dare say it doesn't matter much, if one only has produced something worth producing; but it frightened me." Despite herself, perhaps because fear is the most contagious of diseases, Margery felt a little frightened, too, about this new portrait. But she rallied. "When the time comes for us to die we die," she said, "and we can't help it. But we can all avoid being very silly while we live--at least, you can, and you are the case in point." Frank resumed his seat, and spoke less quickly and excitedly. "I know it all sounds ridiculous and absurd," he said; "but if I paint my portrait as I think I am going to, I shall put all myself into it. It will be a wonderful thing--there will be no picture like it. But I tell you, plainly and soberly--I am not feverish, you may feel my pulse if you like--that if I paint it as I believe I can, something will happen to me. It will be my soul as well as my body you will see there. Ah, there are a hundred dangers in the way. What will happen to me I don't pretend to guess. Moreover, I am frightened about it." Once again, for a moment, Margery was frightened too. Frank's fear and earnestness were very catching. But she summoned her common-sense to her aid. Such things did not happen; it was impossible in a civilized country towards the end of the nineteenth century.