Porter, listening idly, came back. "What type was she?"
"Fra Angelico--to perfection. I should have liked to dress her."
"Did you ever tell her that you wanted to do it?"
"Yes. And she listened. It was then that I gained my impression--that
she was not a saint. One night there was a little entertainment at the
parish house and I had my way. I made of her an angel, in a red robe
with a golden lyre--and I painted her afterward. She used to come to
my studio, but I'm not sure that Poole liked it."
"Poole?" Porter was tense.
"Her husband. He could not make her happy."
"Was she--the one in fault?"
Colin shrugged. "There are always two stories. As I have said, she
looked like a saint."
"I should like to see--the picture." Porter tried to speak lightly.
"May I come up some day to your rooms?"
Colin's face beamed.
"I'm getting into new quarters. I shall want your opinion--call me up
before you come."
It was Colin who went home with Delilah in Porter's car. Porter
pleaded important business, and walked for an hour around the Speedway,
his brain in a whirl.
Then Mary knew--Mary knew--and it had made no difference in her
thought of Roger Poole!