iticising me. I
can't stand it. I never could. I've noticed lately you've taken to it."

"Oh, I've not."

"Well, you give me that impression."

Jenny rose from the cushions and, running her hands down the tarlatan
till it regained its buoyancy, she moved slowly across to Maurice's
side.

"Kiss me, you silly old thing, and don't say any more unkind things,
because they make me unhappy."

Maurice could not be disdainful of her as, leaning over him, she clasped
cool hands beneath his chin and with tender kisses uprooted from his
forehead a maze of petulant lines.

"You little enchanting thing," he murmured. "You disarm me with your
witcheries."

"And he's not going to be cross any more?"

"He can't be. Alas, my sweet one is too sweet."

"If you only knew what it meant for Jenny Pearl to be the soppy one."

"That's love," Maurice explained.

"Is it? I suppose it is."

The sunshine of February was extinguished by a drench of rain. March
came in with storms of sleet followed by a long stretch of dry easterly
gales, when the studio, full of firelight and daffodils, was a pleasant
refuge from the gray winds. After Ronnie's visit the statue had been put
aside for a while; the lovers spent most of their time in hearth-rug
conversations, when Jenny would prattle inconsequently of youthful days
and Maurice would build up a wonderful future. Vexatious riddles of
conduct were ignored like the acrostics of old newspapers, and Jenny
was happier than she had ever been. Her nature had always demanded a
great deal from the present. Occurrences the most trivial impressed
themselves deeply upon her mind, and it was this zest for the ephemeral
which made her recollections of the past so lively. As a natural
corollary to this habit of mind, she was profoundly deficient in
speculation or foresight. The future exhausted her imagination at once:
her intellect gasped long before she reached the prospect of eternity. A
month made her brain reel.

Having succeeded in postponing all discussion of their natural attitude,
Jenny set out to enjoy the present which endowed her with Maurice's
company, with fragrant intimacies, and long, contented hours. He himself
was most charming when responsibilities, whether of art or life, were
laid aside. Jenny, a butterfly herself, wanted nothing better than to
play in the air with another butterfly.

Then Maurice suddenly woke up to the fact that, summer being imminent,
no more time must be wast