"You got into my imagination that day I met you and you've been in it ever since. I was in the stupidest state of dull giving in. You pulled me out." He stared at her, his chin on his hand. "Imagine me pulling anybody out of anything," he said. "Generally I pull them in." "It's true I've had relapses," she said. "Five relapses." "Five?" She nodded. "Five since then. But here I am, seething as you call it, and it's you who started me, and I believe I shall go on now doing it uninterruptedly for ever." Ingram put out his hand with a quick movement, as though he were going to touch the edge of her dress. "Teach me how to seethe," he said. "That's rather like asking a worm to give lessons in twinkling to a star." "Wonderful," he said softly, after a little pause, "to lie here having sweet things said to one. Why didn't I find you before? I've been being bored at the Glambecks' for a whole frightful week." "Oh, have you been there a week already?" she asked anxiously. "Then you'll go away soon?" "I was going to-morrow." "That's like last time. You were just going when I met you." "But now I'm going to stay. I'm going to stay and paint you." She jumped. "_Oh!_" she exclaimed, awe-struck. "_Oh_--" "Paint you, and paint you, and paint you," said Ingram, "and see if I can catch some of your happiness for myself. Get at your secret. Find out where it all comes from." "But it comes from you--at this moment it's all you--" "It doesn't. It's inside you. And I want to get as much of it as I can. I'm dusty and hot and sick of everything. I'll come and stay near you and paint you, and you shall make me clean and cool again." "The stuff you talk!" she said, leaning forward, her face full of laughter. "As though I could do anything for _you_! You're really making fun of me the whole time. But I don't care. I don't care about anything so long as you won't go away." "You needn't be afraid I'm going away. I'm going to have a bath of remoteness and peace. I'll chuck the Glambecks and get a room in your village. I'll come every day and paint you. You're like a little golden leaf, a beech leaf in autumn blown suddenly from God knows where across my path." "Now it's you making _me_ purr," she said. "You're like everything that's clear and bright and cool and fresh." "Oh," murmured Ingeborg, radiant, "and I haven't even got a tail to wag!" "Already, after only ten minutes of you, I feel as if I were eating cold, fresh, very crisp lettuce." "That's not nearly so nice. I don't think I like being lettuce." "I don't care. You are. And I'm going to paint you. I'm going to paint your soul. Tell me some addresses for lodgings," he said, snatching up a sheet of paper and a pencil. "There aren't any." "Then I must stay at your vicarage." "You'll have to sleep with Robert, then." "What? Who is Robert?" "My husband." "Oh, yes. But how absurd that sounds!" "What does?" "Your having a husband."