Amazed at his tone and expression she turned quickly, set back her cup, remained gazing at him, bewildered by the first note of bitterness she had ever heard in his voice. He had risen and walked to his easel, back partly turned. She saw him fussing with his palette, colours, and brushes, watched him for a few moments, then she went away into the farther room where she had a glass shelf to herself with toilet requisites--a casual and dainty gift from him. When she returned he was still bending over his colour-table; and she walked up and laid her hand on his shoulder--not quite understanding why she did it. He straightened up to his full stature, surprised, turning his head to meet a very clear, very sweetly disturbed gaze. "Kelly, dear, are you unhappy?" "Why--no." "You seem to be a little discontented." [Illustration: "'Kelly, dear, are you unhappy?'"] "I hope I am. It's a healthy sign." "Healthy?" "Certainly. The satisfied never get anywhere.... That Byzanite business has begun to wear on my nerves." "Thousands and thousands of people have gone to see it, and have praised it. You know what the papers have been saying--" Under her light hand she felt the impatient movement of his shoulders, and her hand fell away. "Don't you care for it, now that it's finished?" she asked, wondering. "I'm devilish sick of it," he said, so savagely that every nerve in her recoiled with a tiny shock. She remained silent, motionless, awaiting his pleasure. He set his palette, frowning. She had never before seen him like this. After a while she said, quietly: "If you are waiting for me, please tell me what you expect me to do, because I don't know, Kelly." "Oh, just stand over there," he said, vaguely; "just walk about and stop anywhere when you feel like stopping." She walked a few steps at hazard, partly turned to look back at him with a movement adorable in its hesitation. "Don't budge!" he said, brusquely. "Am I to remain like this?" "Exactly." He picked up a bit of white chalk, went over to her, knelt down, and traced on the floor the outline of her shoes. Then he went back, and, with his superbly cool assurance, began to draw with his brush upon the untouched canvas. From where she stood, and as far as she could determine, he seemed, however, to work less rapidly than usual--with a trifle less decision--less precision. Another thing she noticed; the calm had vanished from his face. The vivid animation, the cool self-confidence, the half indolent relapse into careless certainty--all familiar phases of the man as she had so often seen him painting--were now not perceptible. There seemed to be, too, a curious lack of authority about his brush strokes at intervals--moments of grave perplexity, indecision almost resembling the hesitation of inexperience--and for the first time she saw in his gray eyes the narrowing concentration of mental uncertainty.