Michael's eyes seemed to demand an answer from the accusing picture; and there was an instant of silence. "I stayed on here," he said at length, "chiefly because, lacking you, I seem to lack initiative; and I painted that . . well, as a memento of my best bit of work, and of a dream, more delectable than most . . . while it lasted; but none the less . . a dream." "Yet you have seen a good deal of her this season, one way and another." "Yes. In spite of the Button Quail!" "And it would hurt you it she were to marry another man?" Michael frowned. "There _is_ no other man, since Malcolm went home." "Is there any man at all, I wonder?" Michael rose abruptly, and going over to Elsie's portrait stood before it, his hands clasped behind him. "I have wondered also," he said on a rare note of gravity. "But you women are enigmas; even the simplest of you." "Ask her, Michel; ask her. Wondering is waste of time: and time is life. People so often forget that." Maurice did not answer. But Quita was well content: for she saw how Elsie's violet-blue eyes were holding him, drawing him irresistibly back to the old allegiance. Yet, had she known it, Elsie's eyes had less to do with the matter than her own stimulating personality. The subtle development in her had not been without its effect on him. He saw her transfigured by the exquisite, self-effacing passion of the woman; and found himself envying the man; though the eloquence of her appeal had, as usual, fired his imagination rather than his heart. Suddenly he swung round upon her, his face alight. "_Parbleu_, Quita, but you are right! You always are. And as there's no time like now, I'll ask her to-day . . I have scarcely seen her this last fortnight. But that shall be atoned for . . later. Give me your blessing, _ma belle_!" Half-seriously, half in joke, he knelt beside her chair. But the entrance of the kitmutgar with a note brought him swiftly to his feet. "Talk of an angel! It is herself," he exclaimed as he broke the seal. "My demure little Puritan meets me half-way after all!" He scanned the first page at a glance, then, with a sound between a laugh and a curse, crumpled up the paper in his hand. "_Mon Dieu_ . . a pretty bit of comedy!" "What is it now, _mon cher_?" Quita asked anxiously, guessing his answer. "It is Malcolm; no less. He reaps the reward of constancy; like the good boy in a Sunday-school book! And she . . _eh bien_, she is quite certain I shall be delighted to hear of her great good fortune. Very charming! Very correct!" "And you, Michel . . _you_?" He shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the note into the fender.