"I think of you," he said, "as a person always in the sun. You suggest glaciers and fields of snow and meadows full of flowers--the sun pouring down on all of them. I always imagine Apollo as a Norse God. Are you really a Norwegian?" Karen was, as we have said, accustomed to young men who talked in a fantastic manner. She answered placidly: "Yes. I am half Norwegian." "Your name, then, is really yours?--your untamed, yet intimate, name. It is like a wild bird that feeds out of one's hand." "Yes; it is really mine. It is quite a common name in Norway." "Wild birds are common," Mr. Drew observed, smiling softly. He found her literalness charming. He was finding her altogether charming. From the moment that she had appeared at the door in the dusk, with her white, blind, searching face, she had begun to interest him. She was stupid and delightful; a limpid and indomitable young creature who, in a clash of loyalties, had chosen, without a hesitation, to leave the obvious one. Also she was married yet unawakened, and this, to Mr. Drew, was a pre-eminently charming combination. The question of the awakened and the unawakened, of the human attitude to passion, preoccupied him, practically, more than any other. His art dealt mainly in themes of emotion as an end in itself. The possibilities of passion in Madame von Marwitz, as artist and genius, had strongly attracted him. He had genuinely been in love with Madame von Marwitz. But the mere woman, as she more and more helplessly revealed herself, was beginning to oppress and bore him.