Made conscious by the very conventions designed to safeguard unconsciousness; made wise by the unwisdom of a civilisation which required ignorance of innocence, she had as yet lost none of her sweetness and confidence in herself and in a world which she considered a friendly one at best and, at worst, more silly than vicious.

Her life, the experience of a lonely girlhood in the world, wide and varied reading, unwise and otherwise, and an intelligence which needed only experience and training, had hastened to a premature maturity her impatience with the faults of civilisation.  And in the honest revolt of youth, she forgot that what she rejected was, after all, civilisation itself, and that as yet there had been offered no acceptable substitute for its faulty codification.

To do one’s best was to be fearlessly true to one’s convictions and let God judge; that was her only creed.  And from her point of view humanity needed no other.

So she went about the pleasure and happiness of living with a light heart and a healthy interest, not doubting that all was right between her and the world, and that the status quo must endure.

And endless misunderstandings ensued between her and the man she loved.  She was a very busy business girl and he objected.  She went about to theatres and parties and dinners and concerts with other men; and Neville didn’t like it.  Penrhyn Cardemon met her at a theatrical supper and asked her to be one of his guests on his big yacht, the Mohave, fitted out for the Azores.  There were twenty in the party, and she would have gone had not Neville objected angrily.

It was not his objection but his irritation that confused her.  She could discover no reason for it.

“It can’t be that you don’t trust me,” she said to him, “so it must be that you’re lonely without me, even when you go to spend two weeks with your parents.  I don’t mind not going if you don’t wish me to, Louis, and I’ll stay here in town while you visit your father and mother, but it seems a little bit odd of you not to let me go when I can be of no earthly use to you.”

Her gentleness with him, and her sweet way of reasoning made him ashamed.

“It’s the crowd that’s going, Valerie—­Cardemon, Querida, Marianne Valdez—­where did you meet her, anyway?”

“In her dressing room at the Opera.  She’s perfectly sweet.  Isn’t she all right?”

“She’s Cardemon’s mistress,” he said, bluntly.

A painful colour flushed her face and neck; and at the same instant he realised what he had said.

Neither spoke for a while; he went on with his painting; she, standing once more for the full-length portrait, resumed her pose in silence.

After a while she heard his brushes clatter to the floor, saw him leave his easel, was aware that he was coming toward her.  And the next moment he had dropped at her feet, kneeling there, one arm tightening around her knees, his head pressed close.