When I left her, Celia had two photographs, a British warm and an
accidental coffee-stain, by which to remember me. The coffee-stain was
the purest accident. By her manner of receiving it, Celia gave me the
impression that she thought I had done it on purpose, but it was not
so. The coffee-cup slipped-in-me-'and-mum, after which the law of
gravity stepped in, thus robbing what would have been a polite deed of
most of its gallantry. However, I explained all that at the time. The
fact remains that, in whatever way you look at it, I had left my mark.
Celia was not likely to forget me.
But she was determined to make sure. No doubt mine is an elusive
personality; take the mind off it for one moment and it is gone. So I
was to be perpetuated in a miniature.
"Can it be done without a sitting?" I asked doubtfully. I was going
away on the morrow.
"Oh, yes. It can be done from the photographs easily. Of course I
shall have to explain your complexion and so on."
"May I read the letter when you've explained it?"
"Certainly not," said Celia firmly.
"I only want to make sure that it's an explanation and not an
apology."
"I shall probably put it down to a bicycle accident. Which is
that?--No, no," she added hastily, "_Kamerad!_"
I put down the revolver and went on with my packing. And a day or two
later Celia began to write about the miniature.
* * * * *
The stars represent shells or months, or anything like that; _not_
promotion. I came back with just the two--one on each sleeve.
We talked of many things, but not of the miniature. Somehow I had
forgotten all about it. And then one day I remembered suddenly.
"The miniature," I said; "did you get it done?"
"Yes," said Celia quietly.
"Have you got it here?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I say, do let me see it."
Celia hesitated.
"I think we had better wait till you are a little stronger," she said
very gently.
"Is it so very beautiful?"
"Well--"
"So beautiful that it almost hurts? Celia, dear, let me risk it," I
pleaded.
She fetched it and gave it to me. I gazed at it a long time.
"Who is it?" I asked at last.
"I don't know, dear."
"Is it like anybody we know?"
"I think it's meant to be like _you_, darling," said Celia tenderly,
trying to break it to me.