“You are helping me by letting me talk to you. I wonder do you understand a bit of what’s the matter? Can _you_ understand? You’ve always been free, and could make your life for yourself. I’m strong, but I mayn’t even try to use my strength. I hate all this cant about women’s rights; every woman can have her rights if she only dares to take them. But we’re all bred up to be dependent cowards. Now, I suppose you’re shocked?” “Why? I think I understand what you mean—what you feel. Does—your husband know?” “He? He couldn’t understand! He would try to, and would advise me to go out and work here with him. I did do some work with him, but it only sickened me. And the people he works with! Gossiping, chattering, self-important humbugs. So now I sit all day with my hands in my lap and cry like a baby for a moon I _could_ have if I dared take it. I’m young—and—what’s the use of not saying it?—pretty, and——” She clenched her hands on the arms of her chair and set her teeth firmly. The fire shed a warm glow over the handsome, alluring face; he watched her with admiration. A picture ready to his hand. The dull, stupid room; the woman, splendidly rebellious. What was she going to make of her future? “I’m going to ask you to help _me_!” he exclaimed. “Let me paint your portrait; not an ordinary portrait. The subject has been in my head for a long time, but I’ve never been able to grasp it until just a moment ago. I shall call it ‘The Rebel.’ Will you come up two or three times a week to my studio and sit for me?” “Shall I?” she answered, looking doubtfully at him—“shall I? And then when it’s over, come back here—_here_!” He had his thoughts and she had hers, but neither expressed them or guessed the other’s. “It would only make me more angry with things,” she said; “no, you _don’t_ understand me a bit. It must be all—or nothing. A sweet to-day and bread-and-butter every other day? No, no. Understand? It has been so bad with me that I stood on Westminster Bridge the other night after I left you, and looked at the water; I am such a coward that I came home to this.” “So—you won’t help me to paint my picture?” “I’ll think about it, and let you know. When shall I come?” Maddison took out his engagement book and turned over the pages. “You have to find time between one engagement and another,” she said, watching him; “I’m free every day.” “To-day’s Tuesday; would Thursday, eleven, suit you? We could go and have lunch somewhere afterwards.” “I can’t decide. Will you leave it open? I’ll just come, if I’m coming, and, if I don’t come, it will mean I’d rather you didn’t come here again.” “I won’t worry about that. I’ll just hope you will come. Now, I must be going. Good-by, and—again—I wish I could help you.”