dirt and crumbled wood rained down among them.
With a loud, continuous quacking the ducks rushed out from beneath this
nameless menace, and did not stay their flight till they were safely in
the farmyard.

"Don't lose your temper," Anne was saying. "Listen! You've frightened
the ducks. Poor dears! no wonder." She was sitting sideways in a low,
wooden chair. Her right elbow rested on the back of the chair and she
supported her cheek on her hand. Her long, slender body drooped into
curves of a lazy grace. She was smiling, and she looked at Gombauld
through half-closed eyes.

"Damn you!" Gombauld repeated, and stamped his foot again. He glared at
her round the half-finished portrait on the easel.

"Poor ducks!" Anne repeated. The sound of their quacking was faint in
the distance; it was inaudible.

"Can't you see you make me lose my time?" he asked. "I can't work with
you dangling about distractingly like this."

"You'd lose less time if you stopped talking and stamping your feet and
did a little painting for a change. After all, what am I dangling about
for, except to be painted?"

Gombauld made a noise like a growl. "You're awful," he said, with
conviction. "Why do you ask me to come and stay here? Why do you tell me
you'd like me to paint your portrait?"

"For the simple reasons that I like you--at least, when you're in a good
temper--and that I think you're a good painter."

"For the simple reason"--Gombauld mimicked her voice--"that you want
me to make love to you and, when I do, to have the amusement of running
away."

Anne threw back her head and laughed. "So you think it amuses me to have
to evade your advances! So like a man! If you only knew how gross and
awful and boring men are when they try to make love and you don't want
them to make love! If you could only see yourselves through our eyes!"

Gombauld picked up his palette and brushes and attacked his canvas with
the ardour of irritation. "I suppose you'll be saying next that you
didn't start the game, that it was I who made the first advances, and
that you were the innocent victim who sat still and never did anything
that could invite or allure me on."

"So like a man again!" said Anne. "It's always the same old story about
the woman tempting the man. The woman lures, fascinates, invites; and
man--noble man, innocent man--falls a victim. My poor Gombauld! Surely
you're not going to sing that old song again. It's so unintelligent, and
I always th