“If he were in good health it would not matter—­he would throw off such weakness, he would live only for the joy of his work; but he is losing ground, his strength is failing, and he is so afraid there will not be time enough left—­time enough for full recognition,” she explained.

The quiver in her voice silenced Stanwell:  he was afraid of echoing it with his own.  At length he said:  “Oh, more orders will come.  Success is a gradual growth.”

“Yes, real success,” she said, with a solemn note in which he caught—­and forgave—­a reflection on his own facile triumphs.

“But when the orders do come,” she continued, “will he have strength to carry them out?  Last winter the doctor thought he only needed work to set him up; now he talks of rest instead!  He says we ought to go to a warm climate—­but how can Caspar leave the group?”

“Oh, hang the group—­let him chuck the order!” cried Stanwell.

She looked at him tragically.  “The money is spent,” she said.

He coloured to the roots of his hair.  “But ill-health—­ill-health excuses everything.  If he goes away now he will come back good for twice the amount of work in the spring.  A sculptor is not expected to deliver a statue on a given day, like a package of groceries!  You must do as the doctor says—­you must make him chuck everything and go.”

They had reached a windless nook above the lake, and, pausing in the stress of their talk, she let herself sink on a bench beside the path.  The movement encouraged him, and he seated himself at her side.

“You must take him away at once,” he repeated urgently.  “He must be made comfortable—­you must both be free from worry.  And I want you to let me manage it for you—­”

He broke off, silenced by her rising blush, her protesting murmur.

“Oh, stop, please; let me explain.  I’m not talking of lending you money; I’m talking of giving you—­myself.  The offer may be just as unacceptable, but it’s of a kind to which it’s customary to accord it a hearing.  I should have made it a year ago—­the first day I saw you, I believe!—­but that, then, it wasn’t in my power to make things easier for you.  But now, you know, I’ve had a little luck.  Since I painted Mrs. Millington things have changed.  I believe I can get as many orders as I choose—­there are two or three people waiting now.  What’s the use of it all, if it doesn’t bring me a little happiness?  And the only happiness I know is the kind that you can give me.”

He paused, suddenly losing the courage to look at her, so that her pained murmur was framed for him in a glittering vision of the frozen lake.  He turned with a start and met the refusal in her eyes.

“No—­really no?” he repeated.

She shook her head silently.

“I could have helped you—­I could have helped you!” he sighed.

She flushed distressfully, but kept her eyes on his.