rious one. He had known her since she
was sixteen (she was now twenty-four). Yet he did not trust her, and
she troubled him. He had met her at a studio at a time when he had
thought of studying art seriously. Sometimes, something about her
worried and wearied him, yet he couldn't do without her for long. The
fact that he knew he was of great help to her fascinated him; he often
thought that if she had been rich and he poor he would never wish to
see her again. Certainly it was the touch of pathos in her life that
held him; also, of course, she was pretty, with a pale thin face, deep
blue eyes, and rich dark red frizzy hair that was always coming
down--the untidy hair of the art-student.

He was very much afraid of compromising her, and _she_ was very much
afraid of the elderly aunt with whom she lived. She had no parents,
which made her more pathetic, but no more free. He could not go and see
her, with any satisfaction to either of them, at _her_ home, though he
did so occasionally. This was why she first went to see him at his
flat. But these visits, as they were both placed, could, of course,
happen rarely.

Mavis Argles--this was the girl's extraordinary name--had a curious
fascination for him. He was rather fond of her, yet the greatest wish
he had in the world was to break it off. When with her he felt himself
to be at once a criminal and a benefactor, a sinner and a saint.
Theoretically, theatrically, and perhaps conventionally, his relations
with her constituted him the villain of the piece. Yet he behaved to
her more like Don Quixote than Don Juan....

* * * * *

One afternoon about four o'clock--he was expecting her--Vincy had
arranged an elaborate tea on his little green marble dining-table.
Everything was there that she liked. She was particularly attached to
scones; he also had cream-cakes, sandwiches, sweets, chocolate and
strawberries. As he heard the well-known slightly creaking step, his
heart began to beat loudly--quick beats. He changed colour, smiled, and
nervously went to the door.

'Here you are, Mavis!' He calmed her and himself by this banal welcome.

He made a movement to help her off with her coat, but she stopped him,
and he didn't insist, guessing that she supposed her blouse to be unfit
for publication.

She sat down on the sofa, and leaned back, looking at him with her
pretty, weary, dreary, young, blue eyes.

'It seems such a long time since I saw you