A blank look crossed the girl's face; she turned instinctively away from him and picked up her hat.
She put it on and buttoned her gloves without the faintest knowledge of what she was doing; her senses were wholly occupied with the comprehension of the collapse that had taken place within her.

It was the single moment of her life when she differed, in any important way, from the girl Kendal had painted.

Her self-consciousness was a wreck, she no longer controlled it; it tossed at the mercy of her emotion.

Her face was very white and painfully empty, her eyes wandered uncertainly around the room, unwilling above all things to meet Kendal's again.

She had forgotten about the portrait.
"I will go, then," she said simply, without looking at him, and this time, with a flash, Kendal comprehended again.