"No, Quita; I do not understand," he answered, repressed heat hardening his voice and face more than he knew. "To a mere soldier it all sounds rather inhuman; and I can only say that if you find it so necessary to 'get inside' your subjects, as you express it, you had better make women and children your speciality, and let us poor devils alone." "Women and children? But, my dear--what a suggestion! One does not choose one's subjects to order. Women and children don't interest me. I have always preferred to paint men, and always shall." "Then I'm afraid it may end in your having to drop portrait painting altogether." That touched the artist to the quick. With a small gasp--as if he had struck her--she sank upon the arm of his big chair; her hands clasped, so that the knuckles stood out sharp and white; two spots of fire burning in her cheeks. "Do you seriously mean--what you say?" she asked, pausing between the words. "Certainly. I am not given to speaking at random." "You mean--you would insist?" "I hope it would never come to that." "_Mon Dieu_, no. It never would!" She flung up her head with a broken sound between a laugh and a sob. "Because--if it ever did----" She hung on the word a moment; and in a flash Lenox saw how near they were to repeating the initial tragedy of more than six years ago. "Quita," he broke in sharply, "listen to me before you say unconsidered things that we may both of us regret. Are we going to make havoc of everything again at the outset? Tell me that." "How do I know? It depends on you. I think I told you then, that you might as well expect me to give up seeing or hearing as to give up my art. And that is truer--ten times truer--to-day, even though I am . . . your wife." He saw her vibrating like a smitten harp-string; saw the quick rise and fall of the lace at her breast; and it was all a man could do to keep his hands off her. He had to remind himself that she was no child to be comforted with empty kisses; but very woman and very artist, torn between the master-forces of life.