Isabel flung the cloth over the painting and burst out passionately: “That is enough; it’s a picture--not a mechanical drawing! I knew there were miles enough between us, but you never miss a chance to count them all over to me. I----” She choked, and turned quickly to the window, and Antrim, who was slow to anger, tried to make amends. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You know I told you it was no use. I’ll admit that I don’t know a good picture when I look at it.” “I sha’n’t trouble you to look at any more of mine.” This to the window. “I like to look at them; and I’ll praise them, too, if that is what you want. But you always say you want criticism.” “And so I do, but I don’t care to be made fun of.” “I wasn’t making fun of you; I was merely pointing out the things I know are wrong. And what I said may be nothing against the picture as a work of art; it may be a masterpiece, for all I know about such things.” This he said, being willing to pour still more oil on the troubled waters. “You didn’t say anything at all about the colouring.” “Because I don’t know anything at all about colour--unless it’s the colour of your eyes and hair. Let’s drop it, Isabel, and talk about something of a great deal more importance--to me. When are you going to put me out of my misery?” The time was ill chosen, and she answered him accordingly: “That is dead and buried; there is no use in going back to it.” “Yes, there is,” he insisted. “I have waited pretty patiently for a long time, Isabel, and--and--well, I can’t wait always.” But Isabel was still tingling with pique, and she replied without so much as turning her head. “End it, then. I never asked you to wait.” He was on his feet in a moment. “Don’t talk that way,” he pleaded; “it hurts. I am not going to urge you any more now, because you are angry about the picture. But I want to say this: I can’t take a jesting answer, or an angry one, always. When we speak of it again you must either take me or send me away; and--and you’ll listen to reason, won’t you, Isabel?” She continued to look steadfastly out of the window and gave him no word of encouragement. “Won’t you, Isabel?” he repeated. Still no answer. “Isabel, I’m going now.” She did not speak or move until she heard the front gate latch behind him. Then she ran to the easel and snatched the cloth from the newly finished picture. “Oh, I hate you!” she burst out spitefully; and when Dorothy came in, a few minutes later, the offending canvas had disappeared from the post of honour in the studio. CHAPTER V THE SCALE ASCENDING AS for Brant and the successive steps in his reformatory experiment leading up to the good repute hinted at by Isabel’s praise, fortune, good and ill, had befallen in this wise.