He drew on his memory of old reading.  In his mind’s eye he saw Frank, unconscious of his own power or too modest to admit it, stand unknown among the crowds around his picture waiting for and dreading their criticisms.  He saw the light leap to his eyes as he heard their words of praise.  He saw the straightening of his narrow shoulders when he was forced to admit that he was the painter of the work.  Then the windows of Paris were filled with his portraits.  The papers were full of his praise, and brave men and fair women met together to do him homage.  Fair women, yes, and Frank would look upon them all and see reflected in them but a tithe of the glory of one woman, and that woman Claire Lessing.  He roused himself and laughed again as he tapped the magic envelope.

“My fancies go on and conquer the world for my brother,” he muttered.  “He will follow their flight one day and do it himself.”

The letter drew his eyes back to it.  It seemed to invite him, to beg him even.  “No, I will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes.  She will be as glad to hear the good news as I am.”

His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe.

He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel.  He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius.

“Surely,” he said, “this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house.  It has the feeling of a woman’s soul with the strength of a man’s heart.  When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them.  It is too great a treasure for a clod like me.  Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?”

He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it.  He fondled it, smiling.

“Ah, Lady Leslie, I ’ve a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long.”

He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his gallantry.  He laid the letter down and picked it up again.  He studied the postmark over and over.  He got up and walked to the window and back again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife.  No, he did not want it; yes, he did.  He would just cut the envelope and make believe he had read it to pique his wife; but he would not read it.  Yes, that was it.  He found the knife and slit the paper.  His fingers trembled as he touched the sheets that protruded.  Why would not Leslie come?  Did she not know that he was waiting for her?  She ought to have known that there was a letter from Paris to-day, for it had been a month since they had had one.

There was a sound of footsteps without.  He sprang up, crying, “I ’ve been waiting so long for you!” A servant opened the door to bring him a message.  Oakley dismissed him angrily.  What did he want to go down to the Continental for to drink and talk politics to a lot of muddle-pated fools when he had a brother in Paris who was an artist and a letter from him lay unread in his hand?  His patience and his temper were going.  Leslie was careless and unfeeling.  She ought to come; he was tired of waiting.