You've known me
for a long time, Andrew. You wouldn't write me down as altogether a
sentimental ass, would you?"
"I should not, George. I should never even use the word 'sentimental' in
connection with you."
Duncombe turned and faced him squarely. He laid his hands upon his
friend's shoulders.
"Old man," he said, "here's the truth. So far as a man can be said to
have lost his heart without rhyme or reason, I've lost mine to the girl
of that picture."
Andrew drew a quick breath.
"Rubbish, George!" he exclaimed. "Why, you never saw her. You don't know
her!"
"It is quite true," Duncombe answered. "And yet--I have seen her
picture."
His friend laughed queerly.
"You, George Duncombe, in love with a picture. Stony-hearted George, we
used to call you. I can't believe it! I can't take you seriously. It's
all rot, you know, isn't it! It must be rot!"
"It sounds like it," Duncombe answered quietly. "Put it this way, if you
like. I have seen a picture of the woman whom, if ever I meet, I most
surely shall love. What there is that speaks to me from that picture I
do not know. You say that only love can beget love. Then there is that
in the picture which points beyond.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59