She was his own, his very own; one flesh with him; of the same clay, the same class, the same customs and ideals.

Let him only recover her, and his child--and live his own life as he pleased.

No more dependence on the moods of fine people.
He hated them all! Clearly he had offended Madame de Pastourelles.
Perhaps she would not sit again--the portrait would be thrown on his hands--because he had not behaved with proper deference to her spoilt and petted favourite.
Involuntarily he looked up.

The lamp-light fell on the portrait.
There she sat, the delicate, ethereal being, her gentle brow bent forward, her eyes fixed upon him.

He perceived, as though for the first time, what an image of melancholy grace it was which he had built up there.