Marian looked closely again at the picture; it was true; as he said there was a distinct semblance of herself, a fleeting likeness which it was impossible to define, but unmistakable. “You see, Marian, I’ve tried doing without you and I cannot; we must never leave each other again—why should we? We love each other—you do love me still, dear, don’t you?” “Yes, George, of course I do.” “Of course you do! That sounds so cold. It seems to me this way,” he said, sitting down, drawing her on to his knee and resting his head against her shoulder; “life’s so short, and there’s only one thing in it worth having; your love’s just all to me. So why waste any of our time by being apart? We can go away and live quite quietly somewhere, or live here—it’s cheap enough; and if I only paint a picture a year we shall be well off, even if they’re not my best,” he added, sighing and looking at the portrait. She did not answer him, but fondled his hair and pressed him close to her, which she knew would speak to him more eloquently than any words she could put together. Never before had she felt quite so helpless to deal with this love of his, which had grown so much more intense than she had counted upon its becoming. At any rate the time was not yet come for her to show him anything of coldness, and her cool fingers ran through his thick dark hair and he was comforted. “I must put you into another picture; make myself immortal by painting you always; you must be my Emma. What shall it be next? As a Bacchante? Your eyes wild with excitement and your cheeks glowing like red roses? Your lips just parted and your little teeth peeping out between? I _could_ do it; by Jove, I will do it. We’ll begin to-morrow; we mustn’t work to-day. That’s my mistake! I ought never to have tried to paint without you as my model.” “You’re forgetting me!” she said, an idea coming to her, which held out promise of sufficient excuse for leaving him again soon. “Forgetting you—do you think that I ever forget you for a single moment? You know—I often used to think myself in love, but it never lasted. Then I began to believe that love wasn’t very much after all, and that people were fools or ignorant who said it was the only thing in life worth having. You’ve taught me better, dear. But what did you mean by saying I’d forgotten you?” “You’ve—left me out of your plans!” “Left you out? Why, you’re just everything!” “Not quite. You couldn’t go on loving a woman who had no pride, could you?” “I could love you whatever you were.” “But that’s not right, George. When I—came to you, you were a great man, but not nearly so great as you were going to be. And now I have spoiled all your future and you don’t seem to have any ambition left. No,” she said, forcing herself away from him and with a gesture forbidding him to follow her, “I’m _not_ going to spoil your life. If I come between you and your work—I’ll—leave you.” “Leave me!” The agony in his voice startled her.