and the poor man was posing in a painful attitude, talking, whenever
permitted, of the way things had treated him, and the delights of cutting
hair. This morning he took his departure with the simple pleasure of one
fully paid for services not rendered.

And so, walking up and down, up and down, the sculptor waited for Nell's
knock. What would happen now? Thinking had made nothing clear. Here
was offered what every warm-blooded man whose Spring is past
desires--youth and beauty, and in that youth a renewal of his own; what
all men save hypocrites and Englishmen would even admit that they
desired. And it was offered to one who had neither religious nor moral
scruples, as they are commonly understood. In theory he could accept.
In practice he did not as yet know what he could do. One thing only he
had discovered during the night's reflections: That those who scouted
belief in the principle of Liberty made no greater mistake than to
suppose that Liberty was dangerous because it made a man a libertine. To
those with any decency, the creed of Freedom was--of all--the most
enchaining. Easy enough to break chains imposed by others, fling his cap
over the windmill, and cry for the moment at least: I am unfettered,
free! Hard, indeed, to say the same to his own unfettered Self! Yes, his
own Self was in the judgment-seat; by his own verdict and decision he
must abide. And though he ached for the sight of her, and his will
seemed paralyzed--many times already he had thought: It won't do! God
help me!

Then twelve o'clock had come, and she had not. Would 'The Girl on the
Magpie Horse' be all he would see of her to-day--that unsatisfying work,
so cold, and devoid of witchery? Better have tried to paint her--with a
red flower in her hair, a pout on her lips, and her eyes fey, or
languorous. Goya could have painted her!

And then, just as he had given her up, she came.

After taking one look at his face, she slipped in ever so quietly, like a
very good child. . . . Marvellous the instinct and finesse of the young
when they are women! . . . Not a vestige in her of yesterday's seductive
power; not a sign that there had been a yesterday at all--just confiding,
like a daughter. Sitting there, telling him about Ireland, showing him
the little batch of drawings she had done while she was away. Had she
brought them because she knew they would make him feel sorry for her?
What could have been less dangerous, more appeal