"Yes, dear," said Margery, "I knew the picture would be a wonderful thing. But it is too dark to look at it now and too dark for you to paint. Let us come away, and we will find those chapters you spoke of. I have got them all, I tell you. They seem to me very good and very important--quite as important now, and much better, than the chapters you have written there." She put her hand through Frank's arm, and all her soul went into that touch. "Come," she said; "they are not here." For one moment she felt Frank's arm tremble under the loving press of her fingers, but he said nothing and did not move. "You asked me to kiss you this afternoon," she said; "and now, Frank, I ask you to kiss me. Kiss me on the lips, for we are husband and wife." And standing by that painted horror he kissed her. "And now come out for a few moments," said Margery, "for I cannot tell you here." Frank obeyed, and together in silence they walked out on to the terrace. "Let us sit down here," said she, "and I will tell you what you have forgotten." "Those other chapters?" asked Frank. "I want them, for the picture is not complete." "Yes, those other chapters. They are very short. Just this, Frank, that I loved you, and love you now. I see what your fear was: it was fear for me, not for yourself. You thought that if you painted this picture you would have to put something into it which I did not know--something you were afraid of my hearing. I know it, and I am not afraid. But the chapters we wrote together are still true; they are the truest part of all. Your picture is not complete. It wants the most essential part of all." Once more she felt a tremor go through his arm, but still he said nothing. "You told me I did not understand what you meant," she said, "but I understand now. And you too did not understand me if you thought that anything in the world could make any difference to my love for you. We have all of us in our natures something not nice to look at, but what we stand or fall by is our beautiful chapters. You cannot destroy them, Frank, though you thought you could, because they belong to me as well as you, and I will not have them destroyed. You thought you had lost them, but you have not. They are here. You may read them now with me." Margery paused, and on the silence came the sudden, quick-drawn breath that opens the gates of tears. In a moment she felt Frank's arms round her, and his hands clasped about her neck. "Margy! Margy!" he whispered, "have you got them now, even now? My God! how little I knew! You shrank from me, and I thought you had given me up; that there was nothing left to me but that--that horror. But what can I do? My judgment book is written. Is not that true too?" "Do you remember what you said?" asked Margery. "Did you not tell me that you loathed what you were painting? Why did you loathe it?" "Why did I loathe it? Why, because it was--something horrible, wretched!" "Let us go to the studio," said Margery.