Mr. Sabin watched, and the lines in
his face grew deeper and deeper.
"I am an old man," he said softly, "but I will live to see them
suffer who have done this evil thing."
He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than
was usual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a
charmingly furnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung
dead in their vases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty.
Slowly he threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze
furniture, examining as though for the first time the beautiful old
tapestry, the Sevres china, the Chippendale table, which was
priceless, the exquisite portraits painted by Greuze, and the
mysterious green twilights and grey dawns of Corot. Everywhere
treasures of art, yet everywhere the restraining hand of the artist.
The faint smell of dead rose leaves hung about the room. Already
one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness as though the genius of
the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon his stick, and
his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectful voice came
to him from the other room.
"In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have
your coat and hat here."
Mr. Sabin looked up.
"I am quite ready, Duson!" he said.
* * * * *
The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass.
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