id not answer at once. Michael's confession of faith was
not a matter to be lightly dismissed; for the simple reason that he
lived up to it in so far as human inconsistency will allow any man to
live up to his faith, however ignoble.

"I sometimes wonder whether one's art really does gain by that form of
freedom," she said thoughtfully, "or only--one's consuming egotism."

But the suggestion was rank heresy, and Michael would have none of it.

"Really, Quita, you are as enlivening as a Lenten service! Upon my
soul, I'd sooner you turned vegetarian than developed a conscience!
But believe me, I am devoted to Miss Mayhew. She is enchanting. A
wild rose, half-open, with the dew still on her petals.
Metaphorically, I am at her feet. Does that satisfy you, _ma belle_?"

"It might, if I had not heard a good deal of it before. You are
chronically devoted to one or other of us, my beloved Pagan! That's
the root of the difficulty."

In atonement for directness of speech, she laid hands upon his
shoulders, and smiled very tenderly into his face.

"I am chronically devoted to you, _coeur de mon coeur_," he declared in
all sincerity. "That is the only form of it I have yet known."

His reward was a butterfly kiss between the eyebrows.

"Out of your own mouth you stand condemned! It is quite charming for
me; and for the rest--one accepts the unavoidable! But in sober
prosaic truth, Michel, Elsie Mayhew is a great deal too good for you;
and that nice Engineer boy, Mr Malcolm, is desperately in earnest about
her, I have seen his whole heart in his eyes when he looks at her----"

"_Mais, ma chere_, what a serious derangement of his organism!" Michael
broke in with irreverent laughter. "When all's said, the heart is a
practical machine--even the heart of a lover, and a little of it must
have been left below for pumping purposes!"

She stamped her foot in helpless irritation.

"Michel, how exasperating you are! Can't you see that I am in earnest?"

"Like my incomparable rival?" he queried unabashed. "Poor devil! I
wish him no harm. Is it my fault, after all, if the lady prefers a man
who is not cut out on a pattern, and filed for reference at the War
Office? He is immaculate, _ce cher Malcolm_, from his parting to the
toes of his boots. And, _ma foi_, he is clean--like all that
redoubtable army of British officers--aggressively clean, inside and
out, which one cannot always say with truth! But he has no fine