Perhaps she did not try hard, or if she did, for love of the argument rather than the man. She was still young enough to believe that argument is a kind of spy-glass into a neighbour’s mind instead of a cracked mirror that distorts your own. Growing bored, she had lapsed into a mere listener, except when he annoyed her. But he, finding her passivity even more provocative than her temper, could not leave her alone, and when she refused Justin’s proposals and he heard of it, fell upon her with enthusiastic indignation. “You know, I can’t make you out!” Oliver prided himself on understanding women. “What made you stuff up Justin with all that rot? You’re not a fool. You know what you can do. ‘No real talent!’ What are you driving at? That’s what I want to know.” Laura studied her morning’s work. It was slight enough. The sky was white, the hills were blue, and cypresses pierced the all-pervading haze of the olive groves; but Italy—Italy—was warm in every loving line of it. She realized, as she looked at it, how nearly Oliver was justified; but her only answer was a queer little fleeting smile. Sometimes it was difficult to resist Oliver. She knew exactly how he felt. She believed that that was why he annoyed her—she saw in him all the tendencies she tried to repress in herself. Here, but for the grace of—she hardly knew what—went Laura Valentine! It made her brusque with him and impatient, yet always, as I say, with a queer accompanying smile that Oliver misinterpreted. He misinterpreted it now. He thought she wanted encouraging. He warmed to her. “My dear girl! You’ve got to believe in yourself. One must. I do. People won’t give you sixpences for your stuff if you insist it’s not worth tuppence—and after all, one’s out for sixpences! You’ve got to be sure of yourself—so sure that you never even think of it. I am. But to sit there as you do and brood over whether you’re any good——” Again that queer smile came and went as Laura worked and listened, and again it had its effect, its odd, exciting effect upon Oliver. He felt generous, affectionate, expansive. He felt that he would do anything to help the dear girl.... “Should _I_ be likely to back you up?” he demanded—“if I weren’t sure? Haven’t I wallowed in art students? But you—” he flung out dramatic hands—“look at those two things! Isn’t your stuff up to mine? Of course! And d’you know why? The technique—excuse my saying so——” (the artist in him, the realest thing in him, was coming out again) “the technique is—oh, unlawful! utterly! but——” his hand came down heavily on her shoulder—“Oh, damn you, woman, there’s religion in it!” cried Oliver. “I’ll never get that. Oh, I don’t mean Church of England.” Laura was no longer staring at her drawing. He was interesting her at last. “What is it you put in?” He shook at her impatiently as he stood behind her. There was real passion in his voice.