ON Thursday morning Maddison waited impatiently for Marian, though he never for a moment doubted but that she would come. Absence from her had made her influence the stronger; each hour the recollection of her face had grown more clear—the droop of the eyelids, their sudden lifting and the keen, searching look of her eyes; the dainty poise of her head, the masses of red-gold hair, the little mouth with its moist, tempting lips; the tall figure, the clean, determined movements. He paced up and down the studio waiting for her. Many pretty women had sat to him there, some of whom had tempted him and to a few of whom he had fallen willing captive for a time. But Marian held him by a stronger spell; it was not merely her beauty that called so, imperatively to him. She was a complete woman, body and brain, and to touch her heart, to win it, to keep it, to be able to hurt it—that he must do. But she did not come and the hour was past. Was she fooling him, luring him on? He could not credit that; he had watched her keenly and it had seemed to him that she was ready to rebel but did not dare revolt, and that it remained for him to decide whether or not she should attain her freedom. To him this world was a delightful dwelling place, in which wise men gained all of pleasure upon which they could lay hands. To make her his own would bring him complete satisfaction, at any rate for a time. As for the future, only fools toted up bills that might have to be paid. There was one cost, however, which he would have to pay, the thought of which had at first given him pause. Doubtless Squire would sue for a divorce, and, though the case would be undefended, nevertheless it would cause considerable scandal. Afterwards, would she ask him to marry her? That he would not do, for it was a part of his creed that a woman who has left one man had best be left free to desert the next. As he waited impatiently, the question came to him more forcibly than it had done before: did Marian care for him? Their two meetings had been brief, and there had been no hint of love making. He thought that she was desperate enough to grasp at any hand held out to her, that she would be easy to win. The idea of the picture had suggested itself opportunely, and he had seized on it as a convenient and plausible excuse for their meetings. He fancied that she would accept the chance eagerly, yet she had not seemed to do so, had hesitated, and now—he laughed angrily at the state of irritated disappointment into which he was working himself. Perhaps she had been delayed, or detained at the last moment. Probably she would write, or maybe come up in the afternoon to explain. He had arranged to lunch in the studio, luckily, so would not be out if she did arrive later. He looked at the pretty white table, which stood so daintily in the broad alcove before the wide hearth, with the quaint colored glasses and old silver. How delicious she would look against the dark oak of the fireplace!