id! You saw how
it was when you came. And in one little week you go again, with a
light heart; while I return, _faute de mieux_, to my 'wallowing in the
mire!'"

"_Mon pauvre Michel_!" she said softly. "What a tragedy! You make me
wish I was twins!"

But a smile gleamed through her tenderness; for, while she loved him
dearly, she knew every turn and phase of his character; knew that the
picture of desolation, so feelingly drawn, was seen for the moment
through the magnifying lens of self-pity. Yet her concern for him was
genuine, deep-rooted, a habit dating from the days of pinafores and
broken toys. To keep Michael happy had, for long, been the chief part
of her religion: the least of his troubles, real or imaginary, still
had the ancient entry to her heart; and now she leaned impulsively
towards him, elbows on knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes resting
in his.

"It is not true that I leave you lightly, _mon cher_; nor that I love
you less because I have given myself to another--body and soul.
Indeed, I think the very bigness of my feeling for him has made love go
deeper with me in all directions, has opened my eyes to see that to
love means no less than changing the axis on which one's whole nature
revolves. There's the stumbling-block with us artists. We rebel by
instinct against anything that threatens to encroach upon our cherished
_ego_; and excuse ourselves on the plea that it would undermine our
art. But that is not true;--oh, believe me it's not."

Michael's shoulders went up again, and he smiled indulgently. But
behind the smile lurked a shadow of gravity unusual in him. He had
been aware of hidden changes in her, but this was his first glimpse
into the depths.

"Possibly not, _cherie_--for a woman," he admitted grudgingly. "But
for a man----"

"Yes, even for a man, dear ignoramus!" she broke in eagerly, setting
her two hands upon his knees. "Love may fill more of a woman's
horizon; but it goes deeper with men,--of the right sort, even if they
are artists! Look at Browning. _He_ knew. A big brain may set you on
a pinnacle, Michel; but a big love keeps you human, sets your pulses
beating in tune with all the hidden harmonies of the world."

A hot wave of shyness checked her. She withdrew her hands hastily, and
sat upright.

"_Tiens_! But I am preaching! A new vice, _n'est ce pas_?"

"New enough to be interesting, . . and forgivable! What's your text?"

"Need you ask? The f