“Louis!  Louis!  Do you realise what you are saying to me?  Do you understand what you are doing to the old order of things between us—­to the old confidences, the old content, the happiness, the—­the innocence of our life together? Do you?  Do you even care?”

“Care?  Yes—­I care.”

“Because,” she said, excitedly, “if it is to be—­that way with you—­I—­I can not help you—­be of use to you here in the studio as I have been.... Am I taking you too seriously?  You do not mean that you really could ever love me, or I you, do you?  You mean that—­that you just want me back again—­as I was—­as we were—­perfectly content to be together.  That is what you mean, isn’t it, Kelly, dear?” she asked, piteously.

He looked into her flushed and distressed face: 

“Yes,” he said, “that is exactly what I mean, Valerie—­you dear, generous, clear-seeing girl!  I just wanted you back again; I miss you; I am perfectly wretched without you, and that is all the trouble.  Will you come?”

“I—­don’t—­know.  Why did you say such a thing?”

“Forgive me, dear!”

She slowly shook her head: 

“You’ve made me think of—­things,” she said.  “You shouldn’t ever have done it.”

“Done what, Valerie?”

“What you did—­what you said—­which makes it impossible for me to—­to ever again be what I have been to you—­even pose for you—­as I did—­”

“You mean that you won’t pose for me any more?” he asked, aghast.

“Only—­in costume.”  She sat on the edge of the sofa, head averted, looking steadily down at the hearth below.  There was a pink spot on either cheek.

He thought a moment.  “Valerie,” he said, “I believe we had better finish what we have only begun to say.”

“Is there—­anything more?” she asked, unsmiling.

“Ask yourself.  Do you suppose things can be left this way between us—­all the happiness and the confidence—­and the innocence, as you say, destroyed?”

“What more is there to say,” she demanded, coldly.

“Shall—­I—­say it?” he stammered.

She looked up, startled, scarcely recognising the voice as his—­scarcely now recognising his altered features.

“What is the matter with you?” she exclaimed nervously.

“Good God,” he said, hoarsely, “can’t you see I’ve gone quite mad about you!”

“About—­me!” she repeated, blankly.

“About you—­Valerie West.  Can’t you see it?  Didn’t you know it?  Hasn’t it been plain enough to you—­even if it hasn’t been to me?”

“Louis!  Louis!” she cried in hurt astonishment, “what have you said to me?”

“That I’m mad about you, and I am.  And it’s been so—­for months—­always—­ever since the very first!  I must have been crazy not to realise it.  I’ve been fool enough not to understand what has been the matter.  Now you know the truth, Valerie!” He sprang to his feet, took a short turn or two before the hearth, then, catching sight of her face in its colourless dismay and consternation: