THE SACRED FOUNT
doesn't get one much further—the Mask of Death."
"Why so?" I demanded while we all again looked at the picture. "Isn't it much rather the Mask of Life? It's the man's own face that's Death. The other one, blooming and beautiful———"
"Ah, but with an awful grimace!" Mrs. Server broke in.
"The other one, blooming and beautiful," I repeated, "is Life, and he's going to put it on; unless indeed he has just taken it off."
"He's dreadful, he's awful—that's what I mean," said Mrs. Server. "But what does Mr. Long think?"
"The artificial face, on the other hand," I went on, as Long now said nothing, "is extremely studied and, when you carefully look at it, charmingly pretty. I don't see the grimace."
"I don't see anything else!" Mrs. Server good-humouredly insisted. "And what does Mr. Obert think?"
He kept his eyes on her a moment before replying. "He thinks it looks like a lovely lady."
"That grinning mask? What lovely lady?"
"It does," I declared to him, really seeing what he meant—"it does look remarkably like Mrs. Server."
She laughed, but forgivingly. "I'm immensely
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