“Forever!” murmured Mortimer, gazing sadly up at the ceiling. “Easy! Easy! Leaving out of the question the possibility of your tiring of her—he can’t spend the rest of his life chasing after you. Even if he could, he wouldn’t. You don’t know the man as well as I do, although I’ve never met him. It’s love—fleshly love—as well as duty that’s urging him on now. Duty will regain the upper hand, and he’ll argue that he has no right to leave undone the work that is _merely_ duty, in order to pursue duty _plus_ personal interest. He’s actively engaged in trying to save one particularly attractive soul now; he’ll soon swerve round and work again on the multitude. As far as his wife is concerned, he’ll fall back upon the masterly inactivity of prayer. I may be quite wrong, but unless you can hit upon a better plan, I don’t see that you can do better than—hook it. I have spoken.” “I’ve still got the cottage down at Rottingdean; we could run down for a month.” “Where the stormy winds do blow! Poor, dear lady.” “I can’t work in a racket.” “Well, it’s as easy to leave as to go there. Three o’clock! by Jove, I must get back. I’ve some letters to sign, and I’m going down to West’s for dinner. She tells me you’re going to paint her portrait.” “She tells the truth—although she draws upon her imagination. West suggested my doing so, but I haven’t agreed yet.” “Have you met Miss Lane?” “Once, at dinner.” “She’s worth studying. Worth painting too.” “Oh!” “Not I. I don’t even like her. A man never falls in love with a woman he studies, but with the woman who studies him. I _must_ be off. See you again soon. Let me hear from you if you run away.” As he walked homeward, Maddison pondered over the problem, oblivious of people and places. Squire’s intrusion into his life had brought home to him that Marian and the joy of life were one for him. He had entered into this intrigue to a certain extent deliberately, but had not contemplated the possibility of Marian’s attraction for him becoming anything stronger than a mere physical appeal to his sensuous nature. He had always believed that art was the only impulse in his life, that in all else he was governed by his reason. He did not drink too much, because reason and experience told him that after a certain point wine became a tasteless stimulant. He did not permit any woman entirely to captivate him. Experience and reason—so he thought—taught him that women were like wine.