"You're to sit there, Janey. I prepared that rug for you--it has your tintings, your browns and whites and reds. Sit down, and I'll sit at your feet." She sat down, but before he did so, he fetched a jug of chrysanthemums, and put them on the table beside her. "Now you're posed, Janey sweet--posed for me to gaze at and worship. You don't know how often I've dreamed of you in that chair, with old oak at your back, flowers at your elbow, and firelight in your eyes. One night I really thought I saw you there, and I fell at your knees--as I do now--and took your hand--as I do now. But it was only a dream, and I sat on in my own chair and watched our two fetches sitting there before me, you in the chair and I at your feet." He kissed her hands repeatedly, and his poor, hot kisses seemed to drain love and pity in a torrent from her heart. "Quentin, I'm so glad I came. Is this where you sit in the evenings? Now I shall know how to imagine you when I think of you after supper." "'When you think of me after supper'--you quaint woman! how funnily you speak!" He laughed, and hid his face in her knees. But the next moment his head shot up tragically. "I've bad news for you, dear." "Oh, what is it?..." "Baker has returned my poems." "Oh!..." "Yes--there they are." He pointed to the grate, where one or two fragments of charred paper showed among the cinders. She bowed her face over his. "I thought you were happy when I came." "Happy! of course I was happy _when you came_. Janey, if you come to me on my death-bed, I'll be happy--if you come to me in hell, I'll sing for joy." "Did Baker write about the poems?" "No--only a damned printed slip; he doesn't think 'em worth a letter. It's all over with me, Janey--with us both. I'll never be good for anything--I'm a rotter, a waster, a Spring Poet. We're both done for--our love isn't any more use." "Can't you hope, dear?" "Can you?" She began to cry.