And surely the gods loved Geoffrey Danvers! Not only did he bring to his labours a brain in which the capacity for unwearying endeavour co-existed with ever-active enthusiasm and alert intelligence; more than that—to him had been given an imaginative soul that swam easily and always in a boundless sea of fantasy and dreams. His good right hand followed instincts, obeyed emotions and upwelling thoughts, all unguessed-at and undreamed-of by plodding, heavy-minded Jack Hardy. Thus came forth work pulsating with that power, that appeal, that life, for which Jack yearned, that he struggled for, prayed for—in vain—all in vain.
An hour later the two young men sat down to lunch. Jack's opening statement was startling.
"I've seen the most beautiful woman alive."
"That's a big order. Your 'Belle Dame'? No, you couldn't have kept that great fact to yourself for so long."
"I should think not. No, it's that Miss Stornway whom Flinders spoke of. You remember—the 'Diana' of Montford's last year's Academy picture. She's sitting for Towning now. She is lovely—really. She looks as strong and lithe and graceful as the goddess herself. Never worn corsets in her life, I understand. Her face is perfectly exquisite too—pure Greek. Her hair waves back from halfway down her forehead, like that of Venus there."
"Dark, is she?"
"Almost black hair, big brown eyes, quite a brunette really; but one might think she was fair, she has such a clear complexion, such a smooth, satin-like skin. Go out to Towning's and see her. It's really worth while."
"We'll have her to sit here. I can see you are anxious to paint from her."
"I must confess I am."
"You had better write at once then. Since she is such a paragon of beauty I expect she has a waiting list of engagements."
A couple of days later proved Geoffrey to be a true prophet.
"We have indeed got to wait our turn, it seems. Miss Stornway can't come until the middle of March," announced Jack, studying the response to his letter. "Ten weeks ahead. Why, that is about when you'll be going away."
"That doesn't matter at all. If I have got my 'Death of Orpheus' finished I might make a few studies of her, to use up my last few days here; but she is coming for you, you know."
Thespring morning on which Evarne was to make her first appearance in this new studio dawned fresh and crisp. On the outward journey she purchased a bunch of daffodils, and slipped them between the revers of her warm squirrel coat. A little cap of the same grey fur perched itself jauntily upon her thick hair, beneath which her clear, calm eyes looked forth upon the world with a certain sweet and serene complacency.
She had allowed herself more than sufficient time for finding her goal, and was ushered by an elderly charwoman into an empty studio. She sat down patiently to wait, picking up the day's newspaper to pass the time until Mr. Hardy should arrive.
Gradually the feeling assailed her that she was being watched. At length the conviction became sufficiently strong to cause her to lower her paper and look round. There, sure enough, in an open doorway, stood a young man.
She rose rather suddenly to her feet. This was presumably Mr. Danvers.
"Excuse my staring so hard," said Geoff rather awkwardly, as he came forward. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"I'm here to be looked at, you know," was the smiling retort, and then a confused silence prevailed.
Any embarrassment before strangers was an unusual experience, and Evarne found herself consciously casting around in her mind for something to say.
"May I put my daffodils into water—I should be sorry to see them fade?" she asked at length.
For answer Geoff impulsively seized a bunch of roses by their unhappy heads, whipped them out of their vase and flung them aside.
"Put your flowers here," he said.
"You need not have done that," suggested Evarne somewhat reproachfully. "There was plenty of room for my daffodils beside your roses."
There was another pause.
"Do you believe in omens?" asked Geoff suddenly.
"I hardly know," was the uninspiring response.
Once more came a pause of considerable duration. Conversation between these two, neither usually gauche or dull-witted, seemed to consist of brief, somewhat inane remarks, interlarded with long periods of silence. But these protracted intervals were strangely devoid of any unpleasant feeling of restraint.
Meeting Geoffrey's grey eyes fixed full upon her, Evarne instinctively smiled at him, slowly and serenely as was her wont. The young man rose from his chair with an abrupt start, and, crossing over to his easel, commenced to sort out brushes.
"I, too, am going to paint from you, Miss Stornway," he explained with his back to her, "but my friend must arrange your pose. He has got an order for the picture. I can't think what is keeping him."
Even as he spoke Jack swept in like a whirlwind, full of explanations.
"Have you been here long, Miss Stornway? Well, never mind, only be as quick as you can in dressing, there's a good girl. I want you to wear this. Where on earth is it? Have you looked at the costume this morning, Geoff?"
"Which costume?"
"The one you helped me twist up yesterday, of course."
From the recesses of the plaster-room Jack producedwhat was apparently a white rope, but as he proceeded to shake it out, it expanded into a loose sleeveless gown. It was made of almost transparent muslin, and had been damped, twisted round as tightly as possible while still wet, and thus left to dry. As a result it was now covered with innumerable little folds and creases, delightfully reminiscent of the draperies of antique statues.
Before to-day had Evarne worn just such a robe, and knowing that nothing was better calculated to emphasise her commanding beauty than was this graceful simplicity, it was with considerable satisfaction that she took it from Jack's hand and retired to the model's room. A white ribbon was provided to confine the falling folds beneath her breast; the only touch of colour was the rich blue of the cornflowers and golden yellow of ripe wheat-ears that composed a wreath for her head. She did not hurry in the least over her toilette, but took as much time as ever she required in arranging her hair graciously beneath the light garland, and in carefully coaxing and smoothing into artistic folds the masses of snowy drapery, and moulding it to her form. She felt strangely, unreasonably excited—peculiarly anxious to look her very best for Mr. Hardy's benefit. She gazed at her reflection critically ere leaving her retreat, and having an artist's eye, her lips inevitably curved into a soft smile of satisfaction.
"Well, you do look ripping!" exclaimed Jack impulsively, as she appeared and stood motionless for a moment to be surveyed.
Geoff was silent, but Evarne's glance had somehow wandered towards him, and his eyes had spoken. Half-unconsciously she gave a tiny happy laugh, as, scorning the step, she sprang lightly upon the throne.
Never had a day sped with such magical rapidity. For the first time in her whole experience as an artist's model she was genuinely sorry when twilight fell and work had to be abandoned. Strangely, strangely attractive was themental atmosphere of this studio, wherein luxury and ambition blossomed side by side.
She had received in her life not a few personal lessons concerning the uncertainty of Fate and mutability of Fortune, while from Philia's teachings she had learned it all over again second-hand. As the old woman put it—
"Yer goes out innercent and unsuspectin' for a quiet walk, and perhaps you're brought 'ome on a shutter dead as a doornail, from a chimney-pot 'avin fallen and cracked yer skull; or you've been squashed by a motor; or shot by a lunatic; or bit by a mad dog. All them things 'appens to some folks. Maybe your turn next, maybe mine. Or, more ordinary like, a bit o' grit blows into yer eye all in the twinklin' of a second—no warnin' at all—and yer goes gropin' 'arf-blind for the rest of the day."
Evarne returned home that evening with a metaphorical "bit o' grit" having blown in her eye, "in a twinkling of a second—no warning at all." Many a studio had she entered, many an artist had she known, clever, young and attractive, who had been kind and considerate to her, even as Geoffrey Danvers. What quality did he possess in any superlative degree to mark him out from all others? What was there about him that awoke such—well—such a keen and ardent interest in her mind, not only for himself and his work, but for everything with which he was even remotely connected? He had not said or done anything at all original or particularly interesting, yet she found herself dwelling upon his every word, every action, recalling and musing upon his most casual unprofessional glance.
Perhaps, after all, the deep and engrossing impression he had made was but the natural outcome of the ardent admiration she had felt for those of his paintings that were still in the studio. Instantly had she realised that here was work of no common order—that there was a combination of charm and of force, an instinct for the dramatic, together with a certain dreamy mysticism, a poetic treatment ofdaring realism, that could not possibly have been evolved by a banal, uninteresting mind. Surely a man's self can often be better read in his works than by years of ordinary acquaintanceship?
When Philia made her usual inquiries regarding the personal appearance of these new employers, Evarne had described Jack Hardy well enough, but her recollection of Geoff was apparently vague.
"Well—let me think—he has fair hair, but he is clean-shaven, and he was dressed in light grey."
"Yes?"
"There is nothing much to tell, really. He is a bit taller than I am—I noticed that when he stood up on the throne to make some alteration in my wreath. When he is working he wears a painting overall of blue linen, which betrays vanity."
"Pore young man. Why should yer say that?"
"I'm sure he knows the colour suits him. Now, Mr. Hardy only has brown holland."
"Is Mr. Danvers good-looking?"
Evarne reflected a moment, then temporised.
"I thought so," she answered.
Days came and passed. A whole week went by, but her mental vision in no way recovered its normal equipoise.
"Whatever 'as took yer, Evarne?" inquired Philia at supper one evening, when some blatant act of absent-mindedness proclaimed that her companion's thoughts were far away. "There's no tellin' now what you'll be up to next. You're anticking about jist as if you'd fallen in love."
"Fallen in love!" Evarne had never liked that term; it had seemed to her somewhat cheap and light. But, after all, was it not strangely descriptive—full of realism? Only last week she and "that other" had been total strangers. Now—ah! now—what a difference! Only a few mutual glances; a tender pressure of the hand; astolen smile, so full of meaning—at once the whole world bore a different face, was lit by a new glory; all life's hopes and possibilities sprung forth anew, richly scented, brightly hued. "Fallen in love" indeed! What other imaginable phrase could so forcefully express both the suddenness and the personal irresponsibility of that which had brought to pass this all-wondrous change?
Evarne pictured love as a seething, rushing torrent. It had nigh drowned her in a maelstrom once, but she had scrambled out, and the last drop of its cruel waters had long since dried from her garments. Now she had walked quietly along as if on its flat, dull, safe banks for many a year, merely smiling serenely, somewhat scornfully, at those who—dabbling their feet where its eddies were calm and shallow—had stretched forth their hands, inviting her to join them in their child's play. But in the fated hour a pair of grey eyes had gazed up at her from out the depths of the stream; she had looked a moment too long, too intently, and had fallen sheer into the flood and was swept helplessly along in its wild current. Surely it was far safer to retain one's balance always and ever, to keep a steady head and avoid even this divine fall? Mayhap! Yet so far—drifting lightly and unresistingly—she could not regret. The touch of these waters was indeed pleasant; they tasted sweet within her mouth. Rocks there were indeed—cruel, menacing boulders—yet she came not nigh them. Surely it was better here, far better, despite dangers cruel and manifold, than on those level arid banks.
A fortnight glided by, and not a day but saw fresh verses added to the poem of which these two had, all unconsciously, composed the opening stanzas at the very moment of their first meeting. So far this song of love ran in simple cadence—easy of construction and rhythm. Not a line had yet been sent forth into the air. Strophe and antistrophe were sung in silence, yet with perfect mutual comprehension and harmony.
Never since those first few minutes—given over to apparent tongue-tied embarrassment—had Geoffrey and Evarne been together without Jack making a third. While this was certainly in the ordinary course of events, it was also, in some degree, the outcome of deliberate design on Jack's part. That young man had the greatest fear of love. He viewed it with apprehension and misgiving, a disease, a madness, to be warded off and avoided desperately—at all events by an artist. He might not know very much about the matter, or the symptoms by which it made its terrible presence manifest, but very soon indeed he was assailed by an alarming suspicion that Geoff regarded Miss Stornway differently from other models, dangerously differently.
Jack was uneasy. He felt a sort of responsibility for having introduced the young woman into the studio, much as he would have held himself guilty had he brought home fever from one of his searches for "La Belle Dame," and thus prostrated his friend upon a bed of sickness. He had a vague idea that his presence might somehow suffice to nip any growing feeling of affection in the bud. Thus he conscientiously hovered around.
And Geoffrey—a prey to many conflicting emotions—raised no objection. There were reasons that made it very desirable that he should not grow to seriously care for this fascinating model. Not being of a nature that could treat emotional matters lightly, for some time his delight in Evarne's presence was largely diluted by an ardent wish that he had never seen her fair face. But this marvellous wisdom did not have things all its own way.
The date was rapidly approaching when he had arranged to leave England. Geoff's two young travelling companions were continually dropping in, full of eager talk of the journey and the work that was going to be accomplished at Venice. Day by day his gradually growing dislike of this proposed absence from London increased.
At length a mental crisis came. His many conflicting thoughts settled themselves into a resolution.
"I say, Jack," he announced one evening, "you had better go to Venice with those boys. I have just made up my mind that I'm not going. You can be ready in three days, can't you?"
Jack absolutely gasped.
"Why not? Why are you not going?"
"I prefer to stop in England. I—I—well, I suppose I may as well tell you. There's no reason for secrecy. I've seen the woman I want to marry."
Jack tried to look mystified and at a loss, as if thereby he could ward off the evil hour.
"Who is it?" he inquired.
"Why, you blind old bat, who should it be but—Miss Stornway?"
The blow had fallen.
"Geoffrey Danvers!" and Jack's voice was full of horror. "You must not be so idiotic!"
The young man laughed lightly as he answered—
"Object, argue and discuss as much as you like. I'll talk to you for hours about her. Why should I not marry that sweet girl? Tell me?"
"Well, after all she's only a—only a——"
"Only a model! What on earth has that got to do with it?"
"It's a very serious objection on earth, whatever it may be in heaven," retorted Jack, flattering himself he had been rather smart.
"And don't you know where marriages are made? I tell you she is the one woman Heaven intended for me. Don't think I love her only for her beauty—though she is lovely beyond all words. But if her eyes were small and squinting, yet had that same beautiful soul shining out of them——"
Jack interrupted. Even his limited imagination was capable of supplying the conclusion of this sentiment.
"Look here, Geoff! Do see reason."
"I prefer to see Evarne."
"But you cannot—you must not—marry an artist's model whom you haven't known for three weeks——"
"That's a mere detail. It's my misfortune, isn't it, not my fault, that I didn't meet her years ago? As to her being a model—what of it? It's an honest enough profession when a girl is obliged to earn her own living, and you know when her father died and left her penniless she had to do something. Everybody knows that needlework is a starving occupation, and I think that old woman who suggested her taking up this business was a paragon of wisdom. There's nothing at all in Miss Stornway's life that anyone could take exception to, unless they were utterly bigoted. You can't find any story to her discredit in any studio, or on the lips of any artist. Everyone speaks well of her, she is entirely admirable—brave, beautiful——!"
"Oh, she's a nice girl enough, and I don't doubt she's straight as a die. But don't—don't rush into this affair madly and hastily. You were going to Venice. Well, for goodness' sake go."
"I will, later on, and take Evarne with me. I say, I take it all very much for granted, don't I? But she does care for me—you think she does, eh?"
Jack discreetly suppressed the retort that rose to his lips.
"How can I tell? But, of course, I meant go alone to Italy, to test the reality of your feelings. Six months out of a lifetime—why, it's nothing, if it be really an affair for a lifetime. And if absence shows it to be but a passing fancy—well, you will have done no harm to her or to yourself."
"If I didn't see her for twenty years, I should never change, never forget her."
"And it's only six months that's in question. If shereally is the woman above all others for you, then, I'd say, make her your wife even if she were a beggar in the streets. But be sure first, Geoff! You're twenty-six now—not a hot-brained boy. Do submit your fancy to this small test before you fly in the face of society. You know what a general row there will be, and how all your own set will disapprove. You are the heir to a title, though you never seem to remember it, so that your marriage is a matter of real importance."
"I've thought of all that. Don't think I've overlooked any of the arguments my family would be sure to bring up. But I am not going to let my vague prospects make any serious difference in my life. Why, I dare say the title will never come to me. Winborough quite easily might live longer than I."
"It's hardly likely since he's about a quarter of a century older. Anyway, there's the possibility, not to say the likelihood, that your wife will one day find herself a countess, and that your son will be the future Earl of Winborough. It really is no light matter, old fellow. Don't disappoint these boys; go to Venice with them, and see how you feel toward Miss Stornway when you come back."
"And have some other lucky beggar with more gumption carrying her off in the meanwhile?"
"If she married anyone else in six months it would most certainly prove that she had not got the same true depth of feeling for you that you have for her. You ought to be sure, both of yourself and of her, before you make her your wife."
Thus Jack continued, arguing and discussing, talking the profoundest of common sense, yet with enough of sympathy to add weight to his words. And again Geoffrey saw the dark side of the shield, noticed the shadows athwart the roseate path. Finally he resolved not to alter his plans for the summer. Six months would soon be gone, and thepassing of this time of test would sweep the last lingering scruples from his mind.
"It is a serious matter, and ought to be treated seriously. I'm glad I've resolved to go," was his ultimate conclusion.
"I shall often write to you, Evarne," he declared, holding the girl's hands as they bade each other farewell. "You will answer my letters, won't you?"
She did not look up, not able to trust herself to meet his eyes.
"Yes," she replied very meekly, yet gloriously gladdened at heart. "I will write if you wish me to."
Impulsively Geoffrey bent down and kissed first one of the hands he held and then the other. Thus they parted.
Untilthe end of the week Evarne posed for Jack Hardy alone. She had now acquired an entirely fresh interest and new importance in that young man's eyes, and he exerted himself to amuse and cheer her during these early days of separation. Geoffrey was not much mentioned between them. Prudence on the one side, and an instinctive restraint on the other, prevented this. Nevertheless, Evarne was conscious of an added loss when she left this studio to sit for a woman artist, and her surroundings were no longer imbued with the magnetism of the absent one.
But letters from Geoff promptly proceeded to rain down upon her. Within twenty-four hours of his quitting London came a brief note, and apparently his first act on reaching Venice was to write to her for the second time.
"I shall let four full days go by before I answer," she decided. But ere that time had passed, a third very lengthy epistle had arrived, which concluded with the gentlest of reproaches for her unkind negligence in not replying sooner. Thus, when she did sit down after supper one evening to write her first letter to Geoffrey, many pages covered with his handwriting were spread out before her gaze.
The correspondence thus commenced rapidly developed into the most engrossing, enthralling, and delightful feature in the existence of these two. They exchanged ideas, sympathies, experiences, hopes and fears; and theiruttermost frankness on any and every subject but served to show with increased emphasis how harmonious were their innermost natures, how naturally their minds trod the same paths.
Both wrote well and easily, although for some time Evarne, with true feminine discretion, retained a firm grip upon the too frank display of the strength of her affection for Geoffrey. But the days in which she forbade her written words to adequately express what she felt were very speedily left behind. As to the young man himself, all his cautious scruples had exhausted themselves in leading him out of England. From the first he was troubled by few restrictions, and within a month he was avowedly writing love letters.
He had never made any abrupt and startling declaration of his feelings, let alone of his intentions. It was just a case of swift yet easy drifting. He appeared to deem it a matter of course that Evarne knew and recognised the fact that he loved her, and that all else was to be taken for granted. She was both amused and attracted by this simple and unobtrusive change in their correspondence from comparative formality to tender truth. She expressed no surprise, but took it all quietly and without comment. Indeed, it seemed really but a natural and ordinary thing that she and Geoffrey should acknowledge their love. It was a continuance of a pretence of mere friendship between them that would have seemed extraordinary. To abandon any disguise was not only easy and comforting—it was instinctive.
Thus all those fresh vague thoughts, those dominating and ardent emotions that love brings into being, and which suppression causes to torture the brain wherein they are conceived, were granted free scope and outlet in the heart-to-heart letters that they wrote so gladly one to another. And their love grew and strengthened steadily from this use and outgiving.
It had been some time before Evarne had got to the point of responding with equal frankness to Geoff's ardent epistles, but she did arrive at last.
"You tell me to think of you, Geoff," she sat happily writing one evening. "I do, indeed I do, remember you as steadily as even you yourself could possibly desire. To say I think of you every hour is not enough—you are never out of my mind or my heart, night and day. I don't mean that I think actively and consciously of youquiteall the time, but the sense of your personality, the deep thought of you, isincessantlywith me. It has become a part of my mind, I fancy; for I think of you without realising it, simultaneously with thinking deliberately of other matters.
"Have no fear. I love you—love you utterly! I never seem to get tired now, however long the day; for the hours fade into nothingness in dreams of you. You know how ready all we lazy models are to jump down from the throne directly 'time' is called? Now I often surprise people by not moving when the magic word is spoken. I have not heard it, for I have been—where?—out in Venice—or in Paradise—I know not; but wherever the place may be, I have been with you! How, then, can I be expected to hear, unless people shout to startle me back to earth? In the 'rests' I read as usual, or, to be exact, not as usual; for often on reaching the end of a page I become aware that I know nothing at all of what it is about—the thought of you, my dear tormentor, has come 'twixt me and the words, and for very shame's sake I have had to start again and try to banish you for just a few minutes."
"Whatever you find to say to Mr. Danvers is more than I can make out," declared Philia, as Evarne, having completed writing her letter, proceeded to put its pages into order. "You scribbles sheets and sheets, and every day almost—why, you writes books, and 'e's as bad. If I was the postman I wouldn't 'ave it! Now, jist look at the size of that billy-do."
The young woman made a little grimace.
"It is rather long, isn't it? But the difficulty does not lie in finding what to say. It is in obliging one's self to stop."
"Are you goin' to marry 'im, Evarne?"
"I—I suppose that is an allowable question? I don't.... No! I believe—how can I tell? I never think of anything ahead."
"Give me somethin' I can swoller better'n that. 'Ow startled you look. What's to prevent?"
"Marrying! That's—oh, he will marry someone of his own rank."
"Go on with yer. Ain't you a laidy—a perfect laidy, says I?"
"I'm an artist's model. Nothing more nor less," was the somewhat haughtily spoken rejoinder.
"Then I 'opes to goodness you'll be careful what yer writes. It's a jolly dangerous game, I tell yer, puttin' silly talk into writin' and then chuckin' it into the pillar-box. Lord only knows what may come to it before it's safely burned or tored up."
Evarne smiled.
"You unromantic old dear! What harm do you think can come of it?"
"'E could spoil your chance, if 'e was so minded, with any other gentleman as might want to marry yer."
"That doesn't frighten me. Is there nothing else?"
"'Ow can I tell? I ain't no Mother Shipton. But I knows well enough it ain't a wise thing for a girl to do. There ain't a day as passes without reckless letters making trouble for someone or other."
"Is it an equally unwise proceeding for men too?"
"Yes, my gosh, it jist is. Never 'eard of breach o' promise cases? Nobody didn't ought to trust nobody in this 'ere wicked world. If yer contents yerself with jistspeaking like an idjit, you can always deny it afterwards——"
"Oh!"
"But when you've bin and gorn and acted like a born natural, by puttin' the stuff into writin', well, 'tain't no use denying it then. You're done for. 'Out damned lines'—Shakespeare! But they don't come out—not for all the cussin' and swearin' in the world."
Evarne laughed outright.
"That's true enough. I know it, and of course Geoff must know it too."
"Oh, 'e's a hartist. They don't know nothin', none of 'em."
"Geoff knows he can trust me, Philia, and I value and appreciate the blessed belief he shows in me by writing as he does. Perfect love casteth out fear of every description. He believes that I shall know the right thing to do with regard to his letters, and that I shall ever and always do it."
"It don't need much wit for anyone to know they're safe in your 'ands, my dear. But do you write to 'im jist all that comes into yer 'ead, trustin' 'im to know the right thing to do, and do it?"
"Indeed yes—oh yes!"
"That's the very frame o' mind as ruins 'undreds o' girls. You git rid of it, my dear."
"I won't. I shan't even try. No"—and a wilful head was shaken vigorously—"I shan't pay any attention to your sage advice, not the—least—little bit. Not trust Geoff absolutely and entirely! Why, I'd as soon mistrust myself. Though I ought to know better by now—oh, indeed, I ought!"
Bitter thoughts of past blind trust made ridiculous, brought a note of anguish to the low, sweet voice. But she went on almost defiantly—
"I like to write to him recklessly, and without a singlethought of possible future regret. It pleases me to think that he possesses letters of mine that people might say a woman should only have written to the man who was to be her husband. I like to feel that he and I are, to a certain extent, in one another's power—dependent each on the other's honour. Through those letters he has seen into the innermost recesses of my soul, in a way that no other human being has done. Think, when you truly love, of the delight that lies in such abandonment. But don't you trouble, Philia. I've not told him everything—not shown him quite the full extent of all I feel for him. There is still plenty in reserve. There remain sealed chambers that will not open readily."
"Well, everyone must go their own ways in sich matters. 'Tain't no use advisin'. Common sense and love never seems to flourish longside o' one another, more's the pity."
"You see, love is not a question of 'reason.' It is just 'unreason.' Surely it is better to grasp that truth at once, and so reconcile one's self to thinking and acting quite unreasonably?"
"Oh, you silly young fool!" snorted Philia as she lit her candle preparatory to retiring to bed.
On the threshold of the door she stopped and looked back; Evarne was gazing across at her with a sweet smile playing around her eyes and lips. The old woman shook her fist in the air.
"You silly young——" She stopped abruptly, sighed, and shook her head portentously. Then in a changed voice: "My gosh, but 'ow I envies yer!"
She banged the door violently, and went slowly upstairs. Evarne remained for a few minutes rapt in deep thought. Then, rousing herself, she pressed each individual page of her letter to her lips, folded it up with scrupulous care and exactness, and went out to the post.
Many a year had passed since she had known such perfect peace and satisfaction as that which now coloured andperfumed the routine of her days. Living in the present only, she held in her clasp practically all that is needed for happiness. Since her first success as a model she had suffered no physical deprivation such as had characterised that hateful year spent at needlework, but only now were her emotional and intellectual requirements equally and at one time satisfied.
This voluminous correspondence with Geoff was in every way delightful. They thought and wrote much upon topics not altogether personal, Evarne bringing her whole intellect as well as her heart to bear upon the composition of her letters, and, for the first time for many years, revelling in communion with a mind at least equally as reflective and well-informed as was her own.
"What should I have done," she wondered, as she dropped her letter into the pillar-box, "supposing that, loving Geoff as I do, he had not cared for me, and had never wanted to write? I should have died! I don't mean really and truly, I suppose, but my heart would have drooped, my hope and energy and happiness would have faded. I can never be too grateful to him—no, never—for saving me from so much suffering." Then she smiled softly. "Sekhet is gracious and good to me again!"
She walked home with that free, light step that betokens unlimited vitality and buoyancy of spirit. First-love may be indeed unique, unapproachable, but that which is born later in life—the emotion springing from the rich, ripe heart and brain, the ardent affection of the human being in the fullest physical and mental perfection—is every whit as dominating, and it is more inspiring, ample and satisfying than that which came when the heart was young and life a fairy-tale. Evarne had blossomed forth afresh beneath this renewal of love, which had led her again from the monotony of shade out into the vivifying heat of the sun and the glory of white light.
The power of intense loving was perhaps her greatestand most perfect force. It was not of the type that can be portioned out into a series of petty passions. Since Morris died to her, she had met with none other who held the secret by which to possess himself of that unlimited fund of devotion lying dormant and neglected. Some of her best and most desirable years had melted away devoid of all emotional interests, and simply to feel herself loved—to have her long-unneeded capacity for loving called again into active use—was all-sufficient to create the most perfect happiness.
Her whole nature reawoke, rejoiced and sang, not merely because her love was returned—though from that certainty sprang triumph and the sweet exaltation ever attendant upon this greatest of all possible successes—but because she herself once more gave her love lavishly. For the present this was all-sufficient. She rarely thought of what must be its result—what ultimate end could be attained. Blinded by the light of the never-setting brilliance that now lit her path, she could see clearly only what was close at hand, and that was indeed fair. She would not look backwards over that long stretch of desert-land to where lay that dark and fearful forest, with its hidden morasses, evil haunts and poisoned plants through which, led by the hand of Sekhet in cruel mood, her track had passed long since. Against her better judgment, against her will even, Hope unfurled his wings again within her breast. Why endeavour to look forward into the ever-shrouded and unknowable future? She lived only for the present, and in that she rejoiced.
Atthe end of three months she sat again to Jack Hardy. He wrote an imploring appeal that she would somehow contrive to spare time for him just to put her arms and hands into a wondrous allegorical picture he was painting. She did arrange it, for not only were all Geoff's friends her special care, but she wanted to behold that dear studio again. She was also rather curious to see young Frank Pallister, of whom Geoffrey had spoken as sharing it with Jack during its rightful owner's absence.
She found him to be a rosy, fair-haired, somewhat smartly-clad youth, looking even younger than his twenty careless years. His work was distinctly promising, but at present quite elementary—very much that of an Art-student. Still, he was but a boy, and, being fairly well-to-do, would probably not have fretted over his still sadly low standard of execution had he not been goaded onwards by a gadfly of another type from that by which Jack was so constantly harried.
In one of the smartest squares in the West-end of London resided a certain dainty damsel with a stern, unreasonable dragon of a father. Maudie Meridith, in her seventeen-year-old wisdom, fully agreed with Pallister that they were both of ample age to be at least engaged—even if not actually married. Stern, prosaic dragon of a father begged to differ. After many prayers, many pleadings, he had given vent to this appalling ultimatum—
"When you can show me your name in the catalogue of any of the big exhibitions, my boy, I'll consent to your engagement with this baby. Otherwise, you will have to wait until she is actually twenty years of age. Cruelty to children, isn't it? Be off with you both, and don't bother me again."
The youthful suitor had confided this unheard-of tyranny to Geoff, for whom he cherished an affectionate admiration. The response had been to the effect that if Pallister was wise he would not shoot himself or even sink into a decline, but would see about endeavouring to fulfil the conditions that would shorten these three years of probation.
"If, as you say, you are unalterably convinced that Art schools keep you back, you had better go and work every day in my studio," Geoff had written. "It is a big one, as you know, and only Jack Hardy is there at present. You would find him an enormous help to you—but don't bother him, there's a good lad. If you want to try your hand at a picture right away, there is ample room on the throne for two models; if you think a few months hard preliminary work would be of most value, you can make studies from Jack's model. Good luck to you in any case."
This kind offer had been accepted, and every morning Pallister punctually appeared and painted away steadily for a few hours. He did not know the meaning of real hard work, but under the influence of Jack's friendly aid and advice he certainly improved week by week.
Evarne found a certain satisfaction in being again in Geoff's own home, despite his absence, and although his name was scarcely mentioned. On the wall was a painting of him done by Jack a year or so previously. It was a marvellously good likeness, although the background and accessories were unfinished. Portrait-painting was Jack'sforte, would he but have believed it.
"I'm going to smuggle away that picture of Mr. Danvers when you are not looking," declared Evarne; whereuponJack, when he paid her at the conclusion of her sittings, smilingly handed her also the canvas in question already tied up to be taken away.
She hung it in her room, with a little bracket on either side, whereon stood vases which she kept filled with fresh flowers. Night and morning she pressed a gentle kiss upon the painted lips.
"Come back soon, Geoff—come back soon," she once whispered impulsively. And perhaps her wish was wafted away over land and sea to the City in the Waters, for within four months of leaving England Geoff had endured quite sufficient of this test of absence. Thus he wrote:
"Dearest, dearest beyond all expression"I am returning home the day after to-morrow! Sweetest lady that heart ever adored, I am coming back to see you, to breathe the same air with you, to tread the same pavements, to kiss your hands, your lips, your feet."Will you welcome me? I left England loving you.... I thought, to the uttermost of my capacity. Perhaps it was so then; but now I love you ... oh, infinitely more ... because I think of you always.... your exquisite letters have taught me to know you far more perfectly; and all knowledge, all thinking, leads only to fresh love."In a way, I shrink from meeting you again. I am fearful now. In you is all the good and true, the pure and beauteous. How can I or any man be worthy of you? Suppose, after a while, I read disappointment in your face?"But be kind to me, gentle and compassionate. I kneel at your feet, and beg you to give yourself to me and to take me for your own, heart and mind and body, for ever and ever. No other woman could ever be my wife, Evarne, for no other woman could I love."May God bless you!"Geoff."
"Dearest, dearest beyond all expression
"I am returning home the day after to-morrow! Sweetest lady that heart ever adored, I am coming back to see you, to breathe the same air with you, to tread the same pavements, to kiss your hands, your lips, your feet.
"Will you welcome me? I left England loving you.... I thought, to the uttermost of my capacity. Perhaps it was so then; but now I love you ... oh, infinitely more ... because I think of you always.... your exquisite letters have taught me to know you far more perfectly; and all knowledge, all thinking, leads only to fresh love.
"In a way, I shrink from meeting you again. I am fearful now. In you is all the good and true, the pure and beauteous. How can I or any man be worthy of you? Suppose, after a while, I read disappointment in your face?
"But be kind to me, gentle and compassionate. I kneel at your feet, and beg you to give yourself to me and to take me for your own, heart and mind and body, for ever and ever. No other woman could ever be my wife, Evarne, for no other woman could I love.
"May God bless you!
"Geoff."
Evarne let this letter drop on the table, then bowed her head upon it in silence.
"What—what am I to do?" she murmured after a long pause, filled with a turmoil of mingled bliss and suffering. Had she been perfectly free to follow the promptings of her own heart, not one moment for reflection would have been needed. As it was, a secret indestructible, albeit so well-guarded—seemed to rise up as a hideous, pitiless spectre, bidding her set aside any idea of a future spent with Geoffrey.
"I see now—didn't I know it before?—I ought never, never, to have let him grow to care so much for me," she thought, weighed down by genuine though somewhat tardy remorse.
She saw that utter selfishness had ruled her so far, with the result that now it was not only—not chiefly—her own happiness that was at stake, but that of one for whom no sacrifice could be too great to be sweet.
In the abstract, the memory of the three years she had spent with Morris Kenyon formed no burden upon her conscience. Versed in the secrets of her own heart—strong in the certain knowledge of the generous, even if misguided, motives that had prevailed with her—she had been absolved at the bar of her most earnest and sincere judgment from all stain of deliberate doing of evil. How was it possible that she should find cause to reproach or condemn herself, remembering that supreme hour of test, when she had held so loyally fast to her innate convictions of what was right and what was not; when she had refused to barter a mockery of love for the reality of continued wealth and protection? She thought, too, of her life since then, chaste amid greater temptations than a man would ever realise. Deep in her heart was the feeling that she had been tried and not found wanting. Surely, then, she was every whit as fitted as any ordinarily spotless woman to marry a good man?
Still, so long as the likelihood of such a desire on her part had seemed far remote, she had been firmly convinced that she would never allow herself to become a wife with her secret unconfessed. But now she was faced by a problem—a torturing doubt—that was quite unforeseen. Would it not be morally a greater wickedness, an additional wrong, should she remorselessly shatter such perfect trust; smear and deface the happiness of this man who loved her so ardently, revered and honoured her with such glad confidence?
Was it indeed Honour's command that she should dig up this loathsome, long-buried corpse, to thrust it under those very nostrils wherein it would most stink? Was such a cruel and unscrupulous bowing down to the conventional idea of right and wrong unquestionably Love's duty? She had never been much guided by mere convention. Was she to begin now when so much was at stake? Surely not.
She started suddenly from her chair in bewilderment and distress, and commenced to pace the room. What ought she to do? Earnestly she tried to put all care for herself and for her own desires out of her mind—to think only of Geoff. Setting great importance upon the emotional side of life, she scarcely heeded any difference of position that might exist between herself and him. Unconscious of his future prospects, believing his marriage to be a matter concerning himself alone, her one doubt and difficulty lay in how best to cope with her hidden past.
Reason and common sense bade her guard her secret in silence, now and forever. But her feelings told her plainly enough that never could she hope to know perfect peace until she had confessed this thing—confessed, implored and obtained forgiveness. But would that not be an end of all peace of mind for Geoffrey—ah, poor Geoff! She had learnt his nature so well. His was a love that gloried in placing the beloved upon a lofty height, there to be crownedwith stars and worshipped. Could she thrust him out of his paradise?
If she shattered his natural and spontaneous love, would a fresh type, all unknown to him now—that which is founded on pity and kindly indulgence—rise from out the ruins? Suppose not? What if that other kind of love—tender and divine though it may be—was impossible for him? She did not fear that he would repulse her cruelly and scornfully—that he could never do, surely. But suppose his love was killed, while hers remained alive? Ah! Merciful heavens!
With eyes filled by a sudden horror she stopped short before the painting of Geoff that hung upon the wall. Long she gazed, and her wild glance grew gentle with unutterable affection—with an almost maternal yearning. Would life be endurable were it not henceforth consecrated to this man? Ten thousand times no! Both heart and intellect anguished to be allowed full scope to expend their uttermost capacities in the service of love.
And was she not verily endowed with gifts both mental and physical that would enable her to make existence infinitely more delightful, more full, interesting and complete for him, than could possibly be his lot with Art for his sole mistress? Surely herein lay her foreordained life's work? Who could be so cruel, so pitiless, as to wish her to be made an outcast from this her heritage? She stretched forth her hands imploringly to the dear pictured face. Would he wish it? Oh, surely not! She felt now that her very cause for existence was explained—she had discovered the end whereunto she had been created—the duty for which she had been placed on earth, and for the more perfect fulfilment of which every previous experience of her life, glad or sorry, had been but essential preliminary training.
Geoff was sweet-natured indeed, and ever kindly, yet all artistic temperaments need understanding. It wouldrequire true insight and discretion, perchance a deal of patience and forbearance, to render any lifelong union naught but an added inspiration, an unfailing stimulus, an additional happiness to this now ardent lover. Could there be any other woman more fitted to this task than she was herself—more capable of taking Geoff's whole existence into her tender keeping, and thereby blessing and enriching it day by day?
Surely if he never learnt this—her one and only secret—it would be impotent as if it had no existence? And never would it be revealed to him by outside agency; at least, so far as human foresight could discern. Who among those who had known the truth in those bygone years was in the least likely to again cross her path? Not a single individual. Surely it would be well for Geoffrey to be so far deceived—to be tricked, and, if necessary, lied to on this one point? Would not his ultimate greatest happiness be thereby ensured? Since he wished her for his wife, should he not have his will? Looking to her unhesitatingly for all the good and true, the pure and beauteous in womanhood—was he to be disillusioned?
Long and earnestly she reflected, endeavouring to weigh impartially and fairly every argument favouring confession. If Geoffrey could know, would he deem this secrecy to be her crowning blemish—the greatest, most personal and unforgivable wrong of all? Not if he could read her heart, and judge by her motives. Her own welfare was indeed not first in her mind. The shielding of his happiness was verily her chief thought. Alas, that deception should be necessary for its preservation—yet surely this was so? Alas! alas!
At length the final doubt ceased to clamour. The decision had been protracted and difficult. It left her lovely face somewhat drawn and pale; but in her soft, eloquent eyes gleamed a light almost superhuman in its intensity of love and desperate resolution.
"What would I not do, dare, defy for your sake, my best and dearest?" she murmured aloud. "Never, while I have strength and power to ward it off, will I bring grief and suffering and agony of mind into your life. Never!"
Nextmorning came another little note from Geoffrey. He would arrive in London at noon that day. When and where could they meet? Would she come to the studio as soon as her day's work was over? Might he come to see her, or should they meet out-of-doors somewhere? Anything she decided—though she was implored not to put him off until to-morrow. Would she please telegraph?
Evarne looked across the breakfast table.
"Philia, in what costume do I look nicest of all?"
The answer was prompt.
"You looks nicest of all in yer own skin, and nothin' else."
The girl smiled.
"But that hardly does for this occasion, all the same. I'm going to supper with—with Geoff."
"Beg yer parding. 'E's really 'ome, then? Wear anythin' yer choose. 'E won't never notice!"
Evarne feared she was a most restless and impatient model that day. The hours seemed interminable. But they were got through somehow, and at seven o'clock in the evening she stepped from a hansom and proceeded to mount the three flights of broad stairs that led up to the studio. Her heart was throbbing so wildly that even before the first landing was reached her breath came with difficulty, and a feeling almost of faintness obliged her to stand still for a few moments, to reconquer some degree of calmness.
The door of Geoff's flat was already wide open, and just within the hall stood the young man himself, awaiting her coming. The instant he caught the first glimpse of her approaching, he bounded downstairs and seized both the hands she held out to him.
For a minute they stood motionless and speechless, more than content to once again feast their eyes upon one another's faces. Then, still without a word, they mounted the last flight of stairs, holding hands like children, and the door of the flat closed behind them.
They were alone together for the first time.
Evarne went into the sitting-room. The curtains were drawn, and two rose-pink shaded lamps cast a warm, softening glow upon the heavy oak furniture. Calmly enough she took off her hat, carefully stuck in the pins, and placed it on a chair. Then she turned round suddenly, and all her wealth of hidden feeling quivered in her voice.
"Oh, Geoff, Geoff! How sweet beyond words it is to see you again!"
In a second his arms were around her, and she was strained to his breast with a force that was almost painful. In silence he looked, eagerly and intently, deep into the limpid brown eyes so near his own. Such ineffable tenderness and devotion frankly answered his ardent, searching gaze, that the force of his worship for this beautiful woman grew not only unspeakable, but nigh too overwhelmingly great to be borne. His brows contracted, and all unconsciously he uttered a deep-breathed "Oh!" that bordered on a groan of pain; then suddenly sinking on his knees before her with the abandon of his artistic temperament, he seized both her hands, covering them with kisses. At last, pressing her soft palms hard against his cheeks, he rested motionless, and scarcely could she hear his murmured broken words—
"How I adore you! I can scarcely endure it. You are more perfect even than I remembered. Evarne! Evarne!"
She was already bending slightly forward, for unconsciously he was dragging her hands downwards. She leant lower, and lightly brushed his fair hair with her lips. A divan was close by. She sank down, and, still kneeling, Geoffrey rested his folded arms upon her knees and looked up into her face.
The turmoil of strong emotion was still so far beyond all possible expression, that to both speech could have been merely a mockery. For a protracted period nothing was said in spoken words. When Evarne finally broke the long silence it was with tones so soft, so appealing, that they were in themselves a gentle caress, although the actual words were commonplace enough.
"You won't leave me again? You won't go away any more?"
"Not without you, my dearest, my dearest! Never shall I go without you—no, not even to the end of the street—if I can persuade you to come with me."
"And I would follow you willingly, whatever might await us at the end of the street."
"You really love me?"
"You want to hear my voice tell you what you know so well already?"
Geoff answered only with his eyes. Evarne put out both hands and drew his head to her bosom, pressing it so tightly that he felt the throbbing of her heart against his cheek. After a minute the gentle whisper floated to his ears—
"I loved you yesterday. I love you to-day, and I shall love you to-morrow." After a little pause she added, "I'll tell you something more too."
"Nothing else seems to matter. Still, do tell me!"
"It's just a little nothing. Only this—that I cared for you before you ever cared for me."
"No, 'twas just contrariwise! It's no use to shake your perverse darling head. I can prove it."
"You mean you can try."
"Now, listen. Remember that I saw you before you ever saw me. You were reading the paper, but I was reading your face. I had loved you for at least three full minutes before you ever beheld me. How now?"
Evarne laughed happily.
"Yes, you have won after all. Do you know, I like so much to be told that your gaze was never coldly critical, or even indifferent to me."
"I can't imagine love that does not come at first sight," declared Geoff with enthusiasm. "Not in all its full force and power, naturally, but at least as an immediate conviction that here at length is the one who is to become dearest in the whole world. Yet one hears of people knowing each other for years before they learn to love. Isn't that so? What sort of feelings do you suppose fill the space of time between the first seeing and the first loving, when the two are not almost simultaneous? Just interest and liking?"
"It is no use looking questioningly at me," Evarne replied, shaking her head gently. "Besides, I thought men had always had so much past experience in that direction that they knew just everything."
Geoff smiled at her.
"Oh, you did, did you? I'm afraid that branch of my education has been shamefully neglected. And you—you cannot teach me?"
"Can't I, then? I know every whit as much concerning love as did Diotima, who instructed Socrates in the art."
"And who taught you, pray?"
"Don't be jealous. I never had to learn; it's a natural talent. Perhaps it was a gift from my fairy godmother."
"Then it is all theory?"
"Oh yes."
For half a minute Geoff did not speak. Painfully conscious that she had now told him her first deliberate falsehood, Evarne glanced into his thoughtful eyes with suddenapprehension. Then she hastened to break in upon this silence, in which another such terrible question, incapable of truthful answer, was perhaps being formulated.
"You must have thought you cared for somebody before you saw me, Geoff. Do tell me?"
"Very well. Now this is the solemn truth. Not only have I never loved any other woman before you, but I've never even made the mistake of thinking a passing fancy was the real thing. I've never burned incense at the shrine of any false goddess. In my heart I've loved you all my life—that is, the idea of you, Evarne. I've worshipped you and waited for you, sweetheart, and now, thank God, I've found you."
She answered very gently and slowly, her heart glowing with triumph and delight at his avowal.
"If it were possible, I should care for you even more after hearing you say that. But how can I love you more than to the very uttermost of my nature, and I believe I have done that from the first."
Geoffrey found this frank and unaffected confession more adorable than any coquettish hesitation could have proved.
"But even if I had not been able to win your heart, I should still have loved you always and ever, and held myself your knight, ready to obey your slightest or your most difficult command, my queen," he avowed with boyish enthusiasm. "I feel that it was preordained that I should love you, and I should have readily fulfilled my fate, even if you had never been able to care for me in return."
She sighed and shook her head.
"Ah, Geoffrey, do you love me indeed? Almost I doubt it."
"You doubt it? Evarne!"
"You can't imagine what I mean? Sit by my side and I'll explain."
Reclining delightfully in Geoff's arms, her slender arched feet curled up on the couch, she expounded her startling statement.
"When you say that it would not make any—well, not much—difference in your feelings towards me if I did not care for you in return, I wonder if you are not indulging in a state of mind peculiar to poetic temperaments such as yours, my dearest, and I feel jealous."
"Dear child—jealous of whom?"
"Cannot you guess? Why, of Love itself. I believe you are so happy in having me to care for, simply because you delight in loving. You are a worshipper of love in the abstract; you fairly glory in that frame of mind people call 'being in love.' The possession of the emotion means more to you than the possession of any particular woman. There are some terrible people like that. They would rather their mistress died than that she should destroy the love she had awakened in their hearts."
"Now, fair Diotima, just please name one single individual who ever felt that way."
"Easily! What about Dante, the patron saint of such sinners? Do you suppose he could have had any ordinary personal affection for his precious Beatrice? Why, he only saw her twice, or something of that sort, and she was respectably married to somebody else, yet she coloured his whole life, and he seems to have been quite contented. And he is never without disciples—a few. Oh, I know you—people who are in love with Love itself."
"Yes? Go on telling me about them."
Interested though he was in her slightest word, Geoffrey, man-like, was not giving all his mind to Evarne's ideas. He was enthralled by the contemplation of her sinuous, supple form, her tenderly waving hair and satin-smooth skin, and the live beams of her glancing eye; he was glorying in the dulcet music of her voice.
"Well," she went on, feigning discontent, while her very heart seemed pulsating in notes of perfect happiness—"well, you find some woman whom you can idealise and adore, and if she be but passably gracious to you, youproceed to make a world of happiness for yourselves merely from loving her, dreaming of her, writing poems to her or painting pictures that you think she has inspired—though really it is nothing but your own capacity for loving that she has made active that is the true source of your inspiration. Even if you rarely see her it seems to make very little difference—you still dream, still find inspirations, still do great work under the divine influence of Aphrodite. You live in the enchanted Palace of Love, and once safely there, are horribly independent of the woman who opened its magic portals to you. Oh, sorry fate that led me to love an artist! So long as I condescend to exist and remain tolerably young and beautiful, all is well. I cannot possibly feel that your entire happiness depends upon my presence or my absence, my smile or my frown. Now do you see my grievance?"
"I can't believe you know it, but you actually seem to imply that you care for me more sincerely, more humanly, than I do for you, which is obviously impossible."
"I don't see the 'obviousness.' I should rather like to."
"I'll soon tell you. You won't laugh at me?"
"Laugh! Oh, my darling!"
"Well, then, the fact that it is you, your own dear self, that I so glory in, and not any mere abstract mental condition, is proved by this. I confess I always hoped the time would come when I should be genuinely in love. That's what you are not to laugh at, by the way! I knew somehow that I had all the capacity for intense devotion, and naturally enough, I suppose, longed to exercise it. So if practically any young and attractive woman would have served as the sort of figure-head you describe, should I have been forced to wait—unwillingly enough, I can tell you—until you, my only possible beloved, appeared upon the scene? Of course not."
"You had to wait for me—for me—for me!" sangEvarne, keeping the time in her little song of triumph by clapping her hands.
"It is very wicked of you to be so pleased about it. Why did you not come along earlier, my blessing? It is a perfect misery, nothing else, to be empty-hearted. It is terrible to feel a thousand emotions seeking desperately for an outlet. Why did your star linger so long in crossing mine?"
But no sympathy was to be extracted from Evarne.
"It has all been just as is best. You have been most fortunate," she declared. "Love is not the be-all and end-all of any life, you know, and when you think of your chosen work—which is the real thing—I'm sure you can't regret any emotional experiences, however distressing they may have been in the learning. They are all needful training for the production of soul-stirring pictures; as necessary, in their way, as is the enchantment of loving and being loved that is now going to help you still further. Mental turmoil of every type bears its own special fruit that may be garnered by an artist to his own advantage. Stagnation, ignorance and lack of variety in emotions brings ultimate failure in imaginative work. Thus speaks Diotima the Second."
Far-away, curious echoes seemed ringing in Evarne's brain. When and where and in what familiar voice had she heard such sentiments spoken long, long ago?
"Well, it certainly is consoling to put all one's mental worries into the same category as freehand drawing and perspective," declared Geoff; and being both ardently happy and therefore easily amused, they laughed merrily.
After a moment's pause he went on—
"But don't you think the secret tragedy of many a seemingly commonplace and prosaic person is the lack of someone to be earnestly and devotedly adored? Don't you think many and many a heart suffers from a craving to exercise strong powers of loving forever ungratified?I'm speaking of a spiritual demand—not of the universal desire to find a mate that is just part of Nature's artful little scheme for ensuring the due arrival of the next generation. Do you think that demand of the spirit proves a man merely a willing follower of Dante?"
"Oh, no no!—I suppose not. But, despite your specious arguments, I still maintain that you, individually, are one to rate love higher than any object. Obstinate, am I not?"
"Absolutely wicked, you dearest. I love you, my Evarne—you yourself—in every possible way under the sun, including the ordinary human love of any man, artist or not, for the woman he seeks for his wife. There is perhaps a tiny atom of truth in one of the charges you have hurled at me, but——"
"I knew it, my dear commonplace lover. Confess, and I'll see if I can forgive you."