"Then why do we rest so often? I'm not easily deceived. The fine frenzy is lacking, Mr. Burnett--isn't it so?" For reply he held out his paint-smudged hands. "No--no," she went on. "You're painting timidly with the tips of your fingers--not in the least like the 'Agatha.' I'm sure you're doing me early-Victorian." Burnett stopped painting, looked at his canvas and laughed. "Oh, it's hardly that," he said. "Won't you prove it?" "How?" "By letting me look." She rose from her chair, got down from the throne and took a rapid step or two towards the easel. But Burnett's broad shoulders barred the way. "Please," she urged. "I can't, really." "Why not?" She stood her ground firmly, looking up into his face, but Burnett did not move or reply. She settled into the pose again and Burnett went mechanically to his place before the canvas. Once it seemed as if he were about to speak--but he thought better of it. He looked down at the mass of color mingled on the palette. His brush moved slowly on the canvas. At last it stopped and dropped to his side. "I can't go on." She dropped out of the pose. "Are you ill?" "Oh, no," he laughed. With the setting aside of the brushes and palette, Burnett seemed to put away the shadow that had been hanging over his thoughts all the morning. He stood beside her and was looking frankly into her eyes. She saw something in his that had not been there before, for she looked away, past the chimneys and apartment houses, past the clouds, and into the void that was beyond the blue. She had forgotten his presence, and one of her hands which he held in both of his. "Perhaps you understand," he said quietly. "Perhaps you know." The fingers moved slightly, but on the brows a tiny frown was gathering. He relinquished her hand with a sigh and stood looking rather helplessly in the direction of the mute and pitiless easel. They were so deep in thought that neither of them heard the turning of a skeleton key in the latch and the opening of the door. The Japanese screen for a moment concealed them from the view of a gentleman who emerged into the room. Ross Burnett looked up helplessly. It was Mortimer Crabb, horror-stricken at this violation of his sanctum. "Ross!" he said, "what on earth----" Miss Darrow started from her chair, the crimson rushing to her cheeks, and stood drawing the lace across her shoulders. Burnett was cool. "Miss Darrow," he asked, "you know Mr. Crabb? He's studying painting, and--er--sometimes uses this place. Perhaps----" The words hung on his lips as he realized that Miss Darrow with an inclination of the head toward the visitor, had vanished into the dressing-room. As the door closed words less polite came forth. But Crabb broke in: "Oh, I say, Ross, you don't mean you've had the nerve----" Ross Burnett's brows drew together and his large frame seemed to grow compact. "Hush, Mort," he whispered. "You don't understand. You've made an awful mess of things. Won't you go?"