Every morning he awoke vowing he would not touch or look at her picture that day. Every morning he cut short his walk that he might get to the studio earlier and busy himself at the picture. He partially consoled himself with the reflection that at least he was improving it, was not altogether wasting his time. And he found evidence of real strength of purpose in the fact that he kept away from the waterfall. For two weeks he daily feared--or hoped--whether fear or hope or both he was not sure--that she would come to the studio. As the days passed and she did not appear he felt that she was getting over her infatuation; to stay away thus long unless her enthusiasm had cooled was wholly unlike her impetuous and brave nature. This thought did not make him happier exactly, but athwart its gloom shot one sincerely generous gleam: “Anyhow, I’m paying alone,” said he to himself. “And that’s as it should be. It was altogether my fault. I am older, more experienced. I ought to have seen that the strangeness and novelty of our meetings were appealing to her young imagination--and I ought to have broken off at the very outset. If she had been a poor girl leading a quiet, dull life the consequences might have been serious. Yes, and I might have been weak enough to marry her out of regret--and that would have been misery for us both.” He tried fighting against the desire to spend his days with that picture. He tried yielding to the desire. But neither abstinence nor excess availed. He tried savage, sneering criticism--found that he loved her for her defects and her weaknesses. He tried absurd extravagance of romancing--found that he had quite lost his sense of humor where adulation of her was concerned. The kiss flamed on. He decided to leave--to fly. But he discovered that if he went he would surely take the picture; and of what use to go, if he lugged his curse along with him?