"It can't be--it mustn't be! Oh, do, do give up the idea--for _my_ sake! It'll be your ruin as an artist." She had risen to her feet, and was gazing at him appealingly. "You dear little thing, what do you know about the French school or any other?" "Everything. I take in 'Modern Art,' and I read all the magazines and things, and--I know all about it." "You don't know anything about it. All the same----" he paused, biting his lip. "All the same, what?" "If I thought you cared a straw whether I went or stayed----" "Haven't I shown you that I care?" "No, you haven't." "Ted!" Audrey made that little word eloquent of pleading, reproachful pathos; but he went on-- "For heaven's sake, don't talk any more rot about art and my genius! Anybody can do it. Do you think that's what I want to hear from you?" He checked himself suddenly. "I beg your pardon. Now I think we'll go on, if you don't mind sitting a little longer." "But I do mind. Either you're very rude, or--I can't understand you. Why do you speak to me like this?" She had picked up her hat and begun playing with its long pins. As she spoke she stabbed it savagely in the crown. The nervous action of her hands contrasted oddly with the pensive Madonna-like pose of her head, but the corners of her mouth were turned up more than ever, and the tip of her little Roman nose was trembling. Then she drew the pins slowly out of her hat, and made as if she would put it on. Ted tried to reason, but he could only grasp two facts clearly--that in another second she would be gone, and that if he left things as they stood he would have to exchange London for Paris. He leaned against the wall for support, and looked steadily at Audrey as he spoke. "You think me a devil, and I can only prevent that by making you think me a fool. I don't care. I'm insane enough to love you--my curious behaviour must have made that quite obvious. If you'll say that you care for me a little bit, I won't go to Paris. If you won't, I'll go to-morrow and stay there." Audrey had known for some time that something like this would happen. She had meant it to happen. From the day she first saw Ted Haviland, she had made up her mind to be his destiny; and yet, now that it had happened, though Ted's words made her heart beat uncomfortably fast, a little voice in her brain kept on saying, "Not yet--not yet--not yet." She sat down and tried to collect her thoughts. Ted would be sure to begin again in another second. He did. "Or if you don't care now, if you'll only say that you might care some day, if you'll say that it's not an utter impossibility, I won't go. I'll wait five years--ten years--on the off chance, and hold my tongue about it too, if you tell me to." Not yet--not yet--not yet. "Audrey!"