"Yes, I am. You probably don't believe it. It is absurd, isn't it, considering these lonely years--considering what he has done--that I haven't anything with which to reproach myself." "It is very admirable," he said. "Oh, yes, theoretically. I was too fastidious--perhaps a little bit too decent. It's curious how inculcated morals and early precepts make mountains out of what is really very simple travelling. If a woman ceases to love her husband, she is going to miss too much in life if she's afraid to love anybody else.... I suppose I have been afraid." "It's rather a wholesome sort of fear," he said. "Wholesome as breakfast-food. I hate it. Besides, the fear doesn't exist any more," shaking her head. "Like the pretty girls in a very popular and profoundly philosophical entertainment, I've simply got to love somebody"--she smiled at him--"and I'd prefer to fall honestly and disgracefully in love with you--if you'd give me the opportunity." There was a pause. "Otherwise," she concluded, "I shall content myself with doing a mischief to your sex where I can. I give you the choice, Duane--I give you the disposal of myself. Am I to love--you?--or be loved by God knows whom--and make him suffer for it"--she set her little even teeth--"and pay back to men what man has done to me?" "Nonsense," he said good-humouredly; "isn't there anything except playing at love that counts in the world?" "Nothing counts without it. I've learned that much." "Some people have done pretty well without it." "You haven't. You might have been a really good painter if you cared for a woman who cared for you. There's no tenderness in your work; it's all technique and biceps." He said gravely: "You are right." "Am I?... Do you think you could try to care for me--even for that reason, Duane--to become a better painter?" "I'm afraid not," he said pleasantly. There was a silence; her expression changed subtly, then the colour came back and she smiled and nodded adieu. "Good-bye," she said; "I'm going to get into all sorts of mischief. The black flag is hoisted. _Malheur aux hommes!_" "There's one now," said Duane, laughing as Delancy Grandcourt's bulk appeared among the trees along Hurryon Water. "Lord! what a bungler he is on a trout-stream!" Rosalie turned and gazed at the big, clumsy young man who was fishing with earnestness and method every unlikely pool in sight. "Does he belong to anybody?" she asked, considering him. "I want to do real damage. He is usually at Geraldine's heels, isn't he?" "Oh, let him alone," said Duane; "he's an awfully decent fellow. If a man of that slow, plodding, faithful species ever is thoroughly aroused by a woman, it will be a lively day for his tormentor." Rosalie's blue eyes sparkled: "Will it?" "Yes, it will. You had better not play hob with Delancy. Are you intending to?"