"Why not?" She began to read him his portrait as readily as if she were stating the conclusion of a problem. "I saw that you were young and full of generous thoughts; sometimes you were indignant with things as they are, but generally you laughed at them and accepted them. It is, it seems, the nature of your friends to laugh a great deal at things which they ought to remedy if they could; not laugh at them. I thought that you wanted some strong stimulus to work; anybody could see that you were a man of kindly nature and good-breeding. You were careful not to offend by anything that you wrote, and I was certain that you were a man of honor. I trusted you, Arnold, before I saw your face, because I knew your soul." "Trust me still, Iris," he said in rather a husky voice. "Of course I did not know, and never thought, what sort of a man you were to look at. Yet I ought to have known that you were handsome. I should have guessed that from the very tone of your letters. A hunchback or a cripple could not have written in so light-hearted a strain, and I should have discovered, if I had thought of such a thing, that you were very well satisfied with your personal appearance. Young men should always be that, at least, if only to give them confidence." "Oh, Iris--oh! Do you really think me conceited?" "I did not say that. I only said that you were satisfied with yourself. That, I understand now, was clear, from many little natural touches in your letters." "What else did you learn?" "Oh, a great deal--much more than I can tell you. I knew that you go into society, and I learned from you what society means; and though you tried to be sarcastic, I understood easily that you liked social pleasure." "Was I sarcastic?" "Was it not sarcastic to tell me how the fine ladies, who affect so much enthusiasm for art, go to see the galleries on the private-view day, and are never seen in them again? Was it not sarcastic--" "Spare me, Iris. I will never do it again. And knowing so much, do you not desire to know more?" "No, Arnold. I am not interested in anything else." "But my position, my profession, my people--are you not curious to know them?" "No. They are not you. They are accidents of yourself." "Philosopher! But you must know more about me. I told you I was an artist. But you have never inquired whether I was a great artist or a little one." "You are still a little artist," she said. "I know that, without being told. But perhaps you may become great when you learn to work seriously." "I have been lazy," he replied with something like a blush, "but that is all over now. I am going to work. I will give up society. I will take my profession seriously, if only you will encourage me."