“Of course.”

“Just for the sake of information,” he said, “do you always want to take away any man who is safely devoted to another woman?”

Christine seemed resolved to be accurate.  “It depends,” she answered, “whether or not I have anything else to do, but of course the idea always pops into one’s head:  I wonder if I couldn’t make him like me best.”

“And do you always find you can?”

“Oh, there’s no rule about it; only as a newcomer one has the advantage of novelty, and that’s something.”

“And what happened about this artist?”

Christine smiled reminiscently:  “I found he wasn’t really in love with Nancy at all:  he just wanted to paint her portrait.”

“I should think he would have wanted to paint yours.”

“He did and gave it to me as a present, and then he behaved very badly.”  She sighed.

“What did he do?”

“Well,” she hesitated.  “He did not really want to give me the picture.  He thought he wanted to keep it himself.  It was much the best thing he ever did.  I had to persuade him a good deal, and in persuading him, I may have given him the impression that I cared about him more than I really did.  Anyhow, after I actually had the portrait hanging in my sitting-room, I told him I thought it was better for us not to meet any more.  Some men would have been flattered to think I took them so seriously.  But he was furious, and one day when I was out he sent for the portrait and cut it all to pieces.  Wasn’t that horrible?  My pretty portrait!”

“Horrible!” said Riatt.  “It seems to me the one spark of spirit the poor young man showed.”

She glanced at him under her lashes.  “What would you have done?”

“I’d take you out to the plains for a year or so, and let you find out a little about what life is like.”

“I don’t think it would be a success,” she returned.  “I don’t profit by discipline, I’m afraid.  But,” she stood up, “I’m perfectly open minded.  I’ll make a beginning.  I’ll wash the dishes—­just to please you.”

He watched her go to the kitchen sink, and pour water from the steaming kettle into a dish pan, saw her turn up her lace-frilled cuffs, and begin with her long, slim, inefficient hands to take up the dirty plates.  Suddenly, much to his surprise, he found he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to see the lace fall down again and again, and her obvious shrinking from the task.

He crossed the room and took the plates from her, and then with a clean towel, he deliberately dried her hands, finger by finger, while she stood by like a docile child, looking up at him in wonder.

“Don’t you want to reform me?” she asked plaintively.

“No,” he answered shortly.

“Why not?”

“Because you would be too dangerous,” he returned.  “Now you have every charm except goodness.  If you turned good and gentle you’d be supreme.”