“That’s good,” said she, and both laughed. She looked round carefully, noted the skylight, the canvas drapery, finally a broken easel flung into a corner. “How does the painting go?” inquired she, in her eyes a demand for admiration of her cleverness.

“Oh, so-so,” replied he with a glance at the big skylight, then at the broken easel, to indicate that he[11] did not regard her display of detective talent as overwhelming.

[11]

“It’s a shame you’ve never painted me.”

“You know I wouldn’t touch portraits,” rebuked he severely. “I leave that to the fellows who want to make money.”

“But why not make money?” urged she. “I rather like money—don’t you?”

“I’m married to my art,” explained he. “In marriage the only chance for keeping love alive and warm is poverty. Show me a rich artist and I’ll show you a poor one.” He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he meant what he said.

The girl was not at all impressed. “You’d better never fall in love,” laughed she, making a charming wry face. “You’ll not find any woman who’d honestly marry you on those terms.”

“What a poor memory you have—for what I say,” reproached he. “Haven’t I always told you I never should?”

“I remember perfectly,” replied she. “But I’ve always answered that you can’t be sure.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” said he, with irritating, challenging confidence. “As I said, I’m already in love. And I’m the most constant person you ever knew.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” said she, looking[12] shrewdly at him. And the gray eyes, with all the softness of sleep driven from them, were now keen rather than kind. “You are young, for all your serious look; and you are romantic, I suppose. Artists always are. You will fall in love.”

[12]

“Not impossible,” conceded he.

“And marry,” concluded she, with the air of having proved her case.

“If I loved a woman I wouldn’t marry her. If I didn’t love her I couldn’t.”

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