Her fingers ran almost aimlessly over the keys before she began to play, softly, the melody of an old country song—a haunting, melancholy air. Then she sang quietly, with a touch of tears in her voice, a simple ballad of a country maid and her false lover. When it was ended her hands dropped listlessly and there came over her a sudden gust of hatred of this mumming—this making believe to love a man who was a mere tool in her hands. But, until the work was complete, the tool must not be thrown aside. “There are few people who sing like you, Marian; very few I care to hear. They’re mostly musical boxes, absolutely soulless. You—you sing a jolly song and people feel jolly; a sad one—and make me sad. How do you do it? What an inane question! As if you knew. There’s nothing in life worth having except emotions.” “What about painting?” “Art? All art is the expression of emotions—that’s the beginning and the finish of it, has been and ever shall be till the world’s end. Don’t turn up the light. The glow of the fire is quite enough to chat by.” “What emotions do you feel when you’re painting ‘The Rebel’?” “Disappointment. I see your face at the tip of my brush, but every touch I give is wrong—wrong.” “I like it—Mr. West liked it.” “Yes, but neither of you know what I mean it to be, or how far I am from expressing my meaning. It’s little better than a dolly anecdote daub. I’ve a good mind to paint Mrs. West after all; it would be fun.” “How?” “Why, this way. I’d just paint her absolutely true to life, show her empty soul peeping out of her dolly eyes. And everybody would say: ‘What a sweet, innocent face!’ Innocent! How many women are innocent because they’re impotent even to desire to be wicked.” “Then paint her, and we’ll enjoy the joke.” “But I can’t let West pay me for it. I’ll make it a belated wedding present.” Marian made no comment, but marveled at the quixotry of man. CHAPTER X MADDISON being engaged to lunch and tea on the following Sunday—the first of those on which he expected his suppers to commence again—Marian was left to herself the whole day, spending it in lounging discontent. The gilt was wearing off the prize she had won, and each day she grew more impatient for change. It was not in her to wish that she were otherwise gifted and that she could rest content with present conditions. She desired more than she possessed, spent no effort in endeavoring to drill herself into being satisfied with what she had, but kicked against the pricks. Of Maddison’s friends she had met only Mortimer and West. She was to all intents alone in London with Maddison.