“Louis,” she said, “I don’t quite see how you’re ever going to find a purchaser for just a plain portrait of me.”

He said, irritably:  “I don’t have to work for a living every minute, do I?  For Heaven’s sake give me a day off to study.”

“But—­it seems like wasted time—­”

“What is wasted time?”

“Why just to paint a portrait of me as I am.  Isn’t it?” She looked up smilingly, perfectly innocent of any self-consciousness.  “In the big canvases for the Byzantine Theatre you always made my features too radiant, too glorious for portraits.  It seems rather a slump to paint me as I am—­just a girl in street clothes.”

A singular expression passed over his face.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment—­“just a girl in street clothes.  No clouds, no sky, no diaphanous draperies of silk; no folds of cloth of gold; no gemmed girdles, no jewels.  Nothing of the old glamour, the old glory; no sunburst laced with mist; no ’light that never was on sea or land.’ ...  Just a young girl standing in the half light of my studio....  And by God!—­if I can not do it—­the rest is worthless.”

Amazed at his tone and expression she turned quickly, set back her cup, remained gazing at him, bewildered by the first note of bitterness she had ever heard in his voice.

He had risen and walked to his easel, back partly turned.  She saw him fussing with his palette, colours, and brushes, watched him for a few moments, then she went away into the farther room where she had a glass shelf to herself with toilet requisites—­a casual and dainty gift from him.

When she returned he was still bending over his colour-table; and she walked up and laid her hand on his shoulder—­not quite understanding why she did it.

He straightened up to his full stature, surprised, turning his head to meet a very clear, very sweetly disturbed gaze.

“Kelly, dear, are you unhappy?”

“Why—­no.”

“You seem to be a little discontented.”

[Illustration:  “‘Kelly, dear, are you unhappy?’”]

“I hope I am.  It’s a healthy sign.”

“Healthy?”

“Certainly.  The satisfied never get anywhere....  That Byzanite business has begun to wear on my nerves.”

“Thousands and thousands of people have gone to see it, and have praised it.  You know what the papers have been saying—­”

Under her light hand she felt the impatient movement of his shoulders, and her hand fell away.

“Don’t you care for it, now that it’s finished?” she asked, wondering.

“I’m devilish sick of it,” he said, so savagely that every nerve in her recoiled with a tiny shock.  She remained silent, motionless, awaiting his pleasure.  He set his palette, frowning.  She had never before seen him like this.

After a while she said, quietly:  “If you are waiting for me, please tell me what you expect me to do, because I don’t know, Kelly.”