"Do you see that?" he said in a whisper, as if the thing would overhear him. "That's what I was all the morning when you were not here, and I knew I oughtn't to be painting. Wait a minute, Margy; I want to finish a bit I was working at!" His face grew suddenly pale, and the look of guilt descended on it like a mist, blotting out the features. "That's what you are making of me," he said. "Give me my palette. Quick! I sha'n't be a minute." But Margery caught up, as she had often done before, his palette and brushes from the table where he had left them, and fled with them to the door. "Give them to me at once!" shouted Frank, holding out his hand for them, but still looking at the picture. Margery gave one long-drawn breath of pain and horror when she looked at Frank's face, and then, a blessed sense of humor coming to her aid, she broke out into a light laugh--half hysterical and half amused. "Oh, Frank," she cried, "you look exactly like Irving in 'Macbeth' when he says, 'This is a sorry sight! I never saw a sorrier.'" At the sound of her voice, more particularly at the sound of her laugh, he turned and looked at her, and the horror faded from his face. "What have I been saying?" he asked. "You said, 'Give me the daggers!'--oh no, Lady Macbeth says that. Well, here they are. Come to me, Frank, and I'll give you them." Frank walked obediently up to her, as she stood in the entrance to the passage, and as soon as he was outside the studio she banged the door and stood in front of it triumphantly. "Here are the daggers," she said, "but you are not going to use them now. You shall finish that picture, but not like a madman. And if you look like Macbeth any more I shall simply die of it; or I shall behave like Lady Macbeth, and then there will be a pair of us. I shall walk in my sleep down to the sea, and wash my hands all day till it gets quite red. Now you're coming out. March!" CHAPTER VIII