ck in her antique gilded chair, hands extended along the arms,
looking at him with a smile that was still shy.

"My idea of you--of an artist--was so different," she said.

"There are all kinds, mostly the seriously inspired and humourless
variety who makes a mystic religion of a very respectable profession.
This world is full of pale, enraptured artists; full of muscular,
thumb-smearing artists; full of dreamy weavers of visions, usually
deficient in spinal process; full of unwashed little inverts to whom the
world really resembles a kaleidoscope full of things that wiggle--"

They began to laugh, he with a singular delight in her comprehension of
his idle, irresponsible chatter, she from sheer pleasure in listening
and looking at this man who was so different from anybody she had ever
known--and, thank God!--so young.

And when the bell rang and the clatter announced the advent of luncheon,
she settled in her chair with a little shiver of happiness, blushing at
her capacity for it, and at her acquiescence in the strangest conditions
in which she had ever found herself in all her life,--conditions so
bizarre, so grotesque, so impossible that there was no use in trying to
consider them--alas! no point in blushing now.

Mechanically she settled her little naked feet deep into the big
bath-slippers, tucked up her white wool sleeves to the dimpled elbow,
and surveyed the soup which he had placed before her to serve.

"I know perfectly well that this isn't right," she said, helping him and
then herself. "But I am wondering what there is about it that isn't
right."

"Isn't it demoralising!" he said, amused.

"I--wonder if it is?"

He laughed: "Such ideas are nonsense, Miss West. Listen to me: you and
I--everybody except those with whom something is physically wrong--are
born with a full and healthy capacity for demoralisation and mischief.
Mischief is only one form of energy. If lightning flies about unguided
it's likely to do somebody some damage; if it's conducted properly to a
safe terminal there's no damage done and probably a little good."

"Your brushes are your lightning-rods?" she suggested, laughing.

"Certainly. I only demoralise canvas. What outlet have you for your
perfectly normal deviltry?"

"I haven't any."

[Illustration: "'I know perfectly well that this isn't right,' she
said."]

"Any deviltry?"

"Any outlet."

"You ought to have."

"Ought I?"

"Certainly. You are as full of restless