"Who wants you to help it?" he asked with mingled tenderness and impatience in his accent, "or to be quiet either. Quiet affection is nonsense: there is but one way of loving or of doing anything, and that is, as much as one can, Daisy." He uttered not a word to which something within me did not echo and reply. To this day, I do not understand placid affection, even though it should take the calmest name. Like him I hold that there is but one true way of loving any one, or anything, with one's whole heart. "As much as one can," I echoed, passing my arm within his; "that's how you are going to set at painting, is it not?" My upraised face looked into his; he did not reply. "You know," I continued, "you said you could paint over again Count Morsikoff's pictures." "And so I will, but not just yet." "Cornelius, do you no longer like painting?" "No longer like it! I like it but too well; and as I know its power over me, I delay placing myself under a spell, even you, Daisy, might not be able to break." "As if I should wish to break it! When do you begin, Cornelius?" "What a hurry you are in!" "I am in a hurry to see you famous." He smoothed my hair with a flattered smile. "Will you begin to-morrow?" I persisted. "No." "After to-morrow?" "No." "Next week?" "No." "But, Cornelius, when will you begin?" I inquired, rather disappointed. "Now." "Now!" I exclaimed, delighted. "Why did you not tell me sooner that you wished for it?" he asked, reproachfully. "I thought you liked the walks, and put off talking of work from day to day." I had a confused impression at the time, that there was something odd in this speech, but in my joy at having succeeded, I forgot it. "It is quite early yet," I said, "you can begin at once. Which shall it be, Cornelius, the women praying, or the children by the fountain?" "Neither one nor the other for the present," he replied, "that is to say I hope not. I have thought of another subject to begin with." "What is it, Cornelius?" I asked, much interested. "I saw a young girl once," he said in a thoughtful tone, like one who looks back into memory, "and she brought to my mind's eye a full and charming picture. She sat within the meditative shadow of an ill-lit room, reading by an open window--well, why do you look at me so?" "I only think that I was sewing that day--you know, not reading; therefore you cannot mean me."