But a smile gleamed through her tenderness; for, while she loved him dearly, she knew every turn and phase of his character; knew that the picture of desolation, so feelingly drawn, was seen for the moment through the magnifying lens of self-pity. Yet her concern for him was genuine, deep-rooted, a habit dating from the days of pinafores and broken toys. To keep Michael happy had, for long, been the chief part of her religion: the least of his troubles, real or imaginary, still had the ancient entry to her heart; and now she leaned impulsively towards him, elbows on knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes resting in his. "It is not true that I leave you lightly, _mon cher_; nor that I love you less because I have given myself to another--body and soul. Indeed, I think the very bigness of my feeling for him has made love go deeper with me in all directions, has opened my eyes to see that to love means no less than changing the axis on which one's whole nature revolves. There's the stumbling-block with us artists. We rebel by instinct against anything that threatens to encroach upon our cherished _ego_; and excuse ourselves on the plea that it would undermine our art. But that is not true;--oh, believe me it's not." Michael's shoulders went up again, and he smiled indulgently. But behind the smile lurked a shadow of gravity unusual in him. He had been aware of hidden changes in her, but this was his first glimpse into the depths. "Possibly not, _cherie_--for a woman," he admitted grudgingly. "But for a man----" "Yes, even for a man, dear ignoramus!" she broke in eagerly, setting her two hands upon his knees. "Love may fill more of a woman's horizon; but it goes deeper with men,--of the right sort, even if they are artists! Look at Browning. _He_ knew. A big brain may set you on a pinnacle, Michel; but a big love keeps you human, sets your pulses beating in tune with all the hidden harmonies of the world." A hot wave of shyness checked her. She withdrew her hands hastily, and sat upright. "_Tiens_! But I am preaching! A new vice, _n'est ce pas_?" "New enough to be interesting, . . and forgivable! What's your text?" "Need you ask? The first remark ever made upon the subject: 'It is not good that the man should be alone.'" A dull flush showed under Michael's sallow akin. "_C'est a dire, il faut se ranger_!" he said with an embarrassed laugh. "Well . . . find me a woman who understands and inspires me like yourself, and it is possible,--I do not say probable,--that I may yet fulfil the whole duty of man. If one could only suggest a five years' contract . . !" "Michel! You are incorrigible; and I have preached in vain! Besides, it is not a wife of my sort you need, I thought you found that out last year; and . . . I think so still. If not, why have you stayed on here? And why did you make that exquisite pastel of her portrait?"