corners of her mouth and made it
quiver, and gave Nicky a queer and unexpected desire to kiss her.

He went on wanting to know what his debt was--not that he could ever
really pay it.

"Oh, you foolish Nicky," Desmond said.

He repeated himself over and over again, and each time she had an
answer, and the answers had a cumulative effect.

"There isn't any debt. You don't pay anything--"

"I didn't do it for _that_, you silly boy."

"What did I do it for? I did it for fun. You couldn't draw a thing like
that for anything else. Look at it--"

--"Well, if you want to be horrid and calculating about it, think of the
lunches and the dinners and the theatre tickets and the flowers you've
given _me_. Oh, and the gallons and gallons of petrol. How am I ever to
pay you back again?"

Thus she mocked him.

"Can't you see how you're spoiling it all?"

And then, passionately: "Oh, Nicky, please don't say it again. It
hurts."

She turned on him her big black looking-glass eyes washed bright, each
with one tear that knew better than to fall just yet. He must see that
she was holding herself well in hand. It would be no use letting herself
go until he had forgotten his Moving Fortress. He was looking at the
beastly thing now, instead of looking at her.

"Are you thinking of another old engine?"

"No," said Nicky. "I'm not thinking of anything."

"Then you don't want me to do any more drawings?"

"No."

"Well then--I wonder whether you'd very much mind going away?"

"Now?"

"No. Not now. But soon. From here. Altogether."

"Go? Altogether? Me? Why?"

He was utterly astonished. He thought that he had offended Desmond past
all forgiveness.

"Because I came here to be alone. To work. And I can't work. And I want
to be alone again."

"Am I--spoiling it?"

"Yes. You're spoiling it damnably."

"I'm sorry, Desmond. I didn't mean to. I thought--" But he hadn't the
heart to say what he had thought.

She looked at him and knew that the moment was coming.

It had come.

She turned away from the table where the Moving Fortress stood,
threatening her with its mimic guns, and reminding Nicky of the things
she most wanted him to forget. She withdrew to her crouching place at
the other end of the studio, among the cushions.

He followed her there with slow, thoughtful steps, steps full of
brooding purpose and of half-unconscious meaning.

"Nicky, I'm so unhappy. I didn't know it was possible for anybody to be
so