“Oh, why do you mention that?” she cried. “The only painful thing in all the trip. Something that I saw at Dinan--I was put out. Was I very disagreeable? It did not refer to you in any way, dear friend.” “Pardon me if I have touched on a sore place,” replied Kent. “I find I have a good deal to learn in these matters. Will you make a compact with me to tell me if ever I offend you? Your friendship has grown so valuable and dear a thing to me that the idea of running the risk of losing it makes me--what shall I say? Well, I couldn't bear it. I don't often talk like this,--sentiment comes out of me very awkwardly,--but when I do say anything of the sort I mean it. Believe me.” Clytie put out her gloved hand and touched him lightly on the arm. She, too, felt that she had certain need of him. A little thrill of tenderness passed through her as she turned her head towards him to reply. “Didn't I call you 'dear friend' just now? And I meant it, too. You are too honest, too single-hearted, ever to offend me, as you say. If I am ever rebellious with you it will be my own fault, and I shall know it. And as I really have got some common sense, I shall be sorry for it. But you won't expect me to tell you so every time, will you? You will have to take it for granted.” “You always make yourself out worse than you are,” replied Kent. “Very few people know you. The Farquharsons, myself, Winifred, do. I should like to go with you wherever you go, and tell folks not to believe you, to prove to them what a----” “Oh, stop! stop!” cried Clytie, with a little laugh. “This sojourn in the land of compliments has infected you. Oh, no; I am ordinary; not bad, not good. You see, if I had had anybody to care for specially, and who cared for me, I might have shown up differently. I have hardly had a chance of seeming otherwise than selfish. Opportunity makes the saint as much as it makes the thief.” Kent meditated, framing a reply. The right words would not come until it seemed that too long an interval had elapsed. There was another silence--one of those pleasant ones between friends when they feel in sympathy. Clytie at last broke it. “Would you have had such a conversation as this with a man friend?” “No--at least--well, no. Why?” “Oh, nothing. The idea occurred to me,” replied Clytie. CHAPTER IX. The long autumn months rolled on, bringing little new to Clytie or to Kent. Clytie continued to paint her small _genre_ pictures, but with a more certain touch, a restraint which a deeper insight into life compelled. They did not satisfy her now, however, as they used to. She had more articulate longings after an art which should be higher, more comprehensive, more responsive to certain subtler and at the same time more stirring impulses within her.