"No, you shall not go. You shall stay. I wish it. Sit down--here." She patted the sofa beside her, and he obeyed mechanically. "Poor, poor Ted! I _do_ forgive you. We will never misunderstand each other again--never. And now I want to talk to you. What distressed me so much just now was not anything that you said or thought about _me_, but the shocking way you treat yourself and what is best in you. Can't you understand it? You know how I believe in you and hope for you, and it was your affectation of indifference to things which are a religion to me--as they are to you--that cut me to the heart." She had worked herself up till she believed firmly in this little fiction. Yes, those tears were tears of pure altruism--tears not of wounded vanity and self-love, but of compassion for an erring genius. She drew back her head proudly and looked him full in the face. Then she continued, in a subdued voice, with a certain incisive tremor in it, the voice that is usually expressive of the deeper emotions-- "You know, and I know, that there is nothing worth caring about except art. Then why pretend to despise it as you do? And Katherine's every bit as bad as you are,--she encourages you. I know--what perhaps she doesn't--that you have great enthusiasms, great ideals; but you are unfaithful to them. You laughed at me; you know you did----" ("I didn't," from Ted.) "----because I'm trying to make my life beautiful. You're led away by your strong sense of humour, till you see something ridiculous in the loveliest and noblest things" (Ted's eyes wandered in spite of himself to the little lady in terra-cotta). "I know why: you're afraid of being sentimental. But if people have feelings, why should they be ashamed of them? Why should they mind showing them? Now I want you to promise me that, from this day forth, you'll take yourself and your art seriously; that you'll work hard--you've been idling shamefully lately" (oh, Audrey! whose fault was that?)--"and finish some great picture before the year's out" (he had only five weeks to do it in, but that was a detail). "Now promise." "I--I'll promise anything," stammered the miserable Ted, "if only you'll look at me like that--sometimes, say between the hours of seven and eight in the evening." "Ridiculous baby! Now we must see about the pictures; we've just time before tea." The mention of tea was a master-stroke; it brought them both back to the world of fact, and restored the familiar landmarks. Ted, solemnly penitent, gave his best attention to the pictures: there was not a trace of his former abominable levity in the air with which he passed sentence on each as Audrey brought them up for judgment. But when he came to the family portraits he suspended his verdict, and Audrey was obliged to take the matter into her own hands. She took up a small picture in a square frame and held it close to Ted's face. "Portrait of my uncle, the Dean of St. Benedict's. What shall I do with it?"