Thus it happened that she stood very close to Marsena, as he took out another plate, flooded it with the sweet-smelling, pungent collodion, and, with furtive precautions against the light, lowered it down into the silver bath. Then he had to shut the door, and she was still there just beside him. He heard himself pretending to explain the processes of the films to her, but his mind was concentrated instead upon a suggestion of perfume which she had brought into the reeking little cupboard of a room, and which mingled languorously with the scents of ether and creosote in the air. He had known her by sight for but a couple of months; he had been introduced to her only a week or so ago, and that in the most casual way; yet, strange enough, he could feel his hand trembling as it perfunctorily moved the plate dipper up and down in the bath.
A gentle voice fell upon the darkness. “Do you know, Mr. Pulford,” it murmured, “I felt sure that you were an artist, the very first time I saw you.”
Marsena heaved a long sigh--a sigh with a tremulous catch in it, as where sorrow and sweet solace should meet. “I did start out to be one,” he answered, “but I--I never amounted to anything at it. I tried for years, but I wasn’t any good. I had to give it up--at last--and take to this instead.”
He lifted the plate with caution, bent to look obliquely across its surface, and lowered it again. Then all at once he turned abruptly and faced her. They were so close to each other that even in the obscure gloom she caught the sudden flash of resolution in his eyes.
“I’ll tell you what I never told any other living soul,” he said, beginning with husky eagerness, but lapsing now into grave deliberation of emphasis: “I hate--this--like pizen!”
In the silence which followed, Marsena mechanically took the plate from the bath, fastened it in the holder, and stepped to the door. Then he halted, to prolong for one little instant this tender spell of magic which had stolen over him. Here, in the close darkness beside him, was a sorceress, a siren, who had at a glance read his sore heart’s deepest secret--at a word drawn the confession of his maimed and embittered pride. It was like being shut up with an angel, who was also a beautiful woman. Oh, the wonder of it! Broad sunlit landscapes with Italian skies seemed to be forming themselves before his mind’s eye; his soul sang songs within him. He very nearly dropped the plate-holder.