The momentary wave of despair was followed by a somewhat frantic impatience to make an immediate start along this far-stretching road that lay before her. She wanted to return at once to "Mon Bijou," to set up a pot or vase and endeavour to make a drawing of it in which the two sides should at least decently resemble one another. It was all very nice and amusing to sketch pretty little faces with huge eyes, tiny mouths and masses of very curly hair; to cover sheets of notepaper with angels whose big, feathery wings and vapoury bodies conveniently vanished into nothing. But one day in Paris she had tried to make a correct drawing of a dull, unimaginative vase, and her effort had been brought to an abrupt and highly unsatisfactory conclusion by the much-employed indiarubber working a hole in the paper. That evening, as she and Morris walked in the garden star-gazing, she honestly confided to him her fear that the attaining of artistic excellence would be a longer task than she had at all realised. He did not appear to sink under the shock, but, on the contrary, inquired calmly enough "what that mattered." Hesitatingly, Evarne broached the subject of expense. It was a matter that pressed rather heavily upon her mind. His answer was unexpected. Half opening his lips as if to speak, he closed them again firmly, looked frowningly into her tremulous, upturned countenance, then suddenly slipping his arm round her waist, drew her closely to him. Her instantaneous impulse was to free herself--not because she wanted to, far from it--but because she knew well enough that such were dull duty's dictates. Still, she hesitated a moment, and thereby lost the strength of mind necessary to maintain strict propriety upon its lofty pedestal. On the contrary, she rested quite impassive, and Morris felt her soft uncorseted waist heave slightly with the deep, quivering breath she drew. Somewhat fiercely clasping her yet closer, in a second his other arm was also around her, and he was straining the flexible young form to his breast with all the abandon of a man who, having reluctantly practised self-control for long, lets himself go at last. But his very ardour and heedless violence frightened Evarne immediately. Using the whole of her considerable strength she endeavoured to break away from his clasp. "Don't, don't!" she cried in unmistakable earnestness, and besides genuine alarm there was a touch of decided anger in her voice. As soon as she had freed herself she stood irresolute--motionless and fascinated--yet obviously prepared at any second to dart away. Indeed, unconsciously, prompted by her athletic instincts, she rested, poised with her heels already slightly raised off the earth. She looked more Greek than ever at that moment; fitted indeed to form part of some legend-- "Of deities or mortals, or of both; In Temple, or the dales of Arcady."