d now, when he ought to have been relieved, he
found his anger rekindled to white heat by Quita's frank confession
that his friend--whose heart had been wrenched from him by her
so-called 'method'--counted for nothing at all. For one ignoble
instant, he was tempted to break through every restraining
consideration and lash her with the truth.

The fact that he did not answer her at once puzzled Quita.

"Do you understand now, _mon ami_?" she asked, coming a step closer.
"I was absorbed in an interesting subject. It is over--_voila tout_."

"No, Quita; I do not understand," he answered, repressed heat hardening
his voice and face more than he knew. "To a mere soldier it all sounds
rather inhuman; and I can only say that if you find it so necessary to
'get inside' your subjects, as you express it, you had better make
women and children your speciality, and let us poor devils alone."

"Women and children? But, my dear--what a suggestion! One does not
choose one's subjects to order. Women and children don't interest me.
I have always preferred to paint men, and always shall."

"Then I'm afraid it may end in your having to drop portrait painting
altogether."

That touched the artist to the quick. With a small gasp--as if he had
struck her--she sank upon the arm of his big chair; her hands clasped,
so that the knuckles stood out sharp and white; two spots of fire
burning in her cheeks.

"Do you seriously mean--what you say?" she asked, pausing between the
words.

"Certainly. I am not given to speaking at random."

"You mean--you would insist?"

"I hope it would never come to that."

"_Mon Dieu_, no. It never would!" She flung up her head with a broken
sound between a laugh and a sob. "Because--if it ever did----"

She hung on the word a moment; and in a flash Lenox saw how near they
were to repeating the initial tragedy of more than six years ago.

"Quita," he broke in sharply, "listen to me before you say unconsidered
things that we may both of us regret. Are we going to make havoc of
everything again at the outset? Tell me that."

"How do I know? It depends on you. I think I told you then, that you
might as well expect me to give up seeing or hearing as to give up my
art. And that is truer--ten times truer--to-day, even though I
am . . . your wife."

He saw her vibrating like a smitten harp-string; saw the quick rise and
fall of the lace at her breast; and it was all a man could do to keep