Frank did not seem to hear, for he went on painting; but she heard him murmur below his breath: "Yes, horrible, horrible!" For the moment Margery lost her nerve completely. She was incontrollably frightened. "Frank, Frank!" she cried, hysterically. Then she cursed her own folly. That was not the way to teach him. She laid one hand on his arm, and with her voice again in control, "Leave off painting," she said--"leave off painting at once and look at me!" This time he heard. His right hand, holding a brush filled with paint, dropped nervelessly to his side, and the brush slid from his fingers on to the floor. In that moment his face changed. The vicious, guilty lines softened and faded, and his expression became that of a frightened child. "Ah, Margery," he cried, "what has happened? Why were you not here? What have I been doing?" Margery had got between him and the picture, and before he had finished speaking she had wheeled it round with its face to the wall. "You've been working long enough," she said, "and you are coming out for a bit." "Yes, that will be nice," said Frank, picking up the brush he had dropped and examining it. "Why, it is quite full of paint," he added, as if this remarkable discovery was quite worth comment. "You dear, how extraordinary!" said Margery. "You usually paint with dry brushes, don't you?" "Oh, I've been painting all morning, so I have!" said Frank, in the same listless, tired voice, and his eye wandered to the easel which Margery had turned round. "No, you've got to let it alone," said she, guessing his intention. "You are not going to work any more till this afternoon." Frank passed his hands over his eyes. "I'm rather tired," he said. "I think I won't go for a walk. I'll sit down here if you will stop with me." "Very good, for ten minutes; and then you must come out. It's a lovely morning, and we'll only stroll." Frank looked out of the window. "My God! it is a lovely morning," he said--"it is insolently lovely. I've been dreaming, I think. Those trees look as if they were dreaming, too. I wonder if they have such horrible dreams as I? I think I must have been asleep. I feel queer and only half awake, and I've had bad dreams--horrid dreams." "Did he have nasty dreams?" said she, sympathetically. "He said he was going to work so hard, and he's dreamed instead." Frank seemed hardly to hear her. "It began by my wondering whether I ought to go on with that portrait or not," he said. "I kept thinking--" "You shall go on with it, Frank," broke in Margery, suddenly, afraid of letting herself consent--"I tell you that you must go on with it." Frank roused himself at the sound of her eager voice.