“What is it?” he said—­“Innocent—­don’t stare like that!”

She smiled strangely and nodded at him—­she was fingering the plant of marguerite daisies that stood in its accustomed place between the easel and the wall.  She plucked a flower and began hurriedly stripping off its petals.

“‘Il m’aime—­un peu!—­beaucoup—­passionement—­pas du tout!’ Pas du tout!” she cried—­“Amadis!  Amadis de Jocelyn!  You hear what it says?  Pas du tout!  You promised it should never come to that!—­but it has come!”

She threw away the stripped flower, ... there was a quick hot throbbing behind her temples—­she put up her hands—­then all suddenly a sharp involuntary scream broke from her lips.  He sprang towards her to seize and silence her—­she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth.

“I’m sorry!” she panted—­“Forgive!—­I couldn’t help it!—­Amadis—­ Amadis!—­”

And she flung herself against his breast.  Her eyes, large and feverishly brilliant, searched his face for any sign of tenderness, and searched in vain.

“Say it isn’t true!” she whispered—­“Amadis—­oh my love, say it isn’t true!” Her little hands caressed him—­she drew his head down towards her and her pleading kiss touched his lips.  “Say that you didn’t really mean it!—­that you love me still—­Amadis!—­you could not be cruel!—­you will not break my heart!—­”

But he was too angry to be pitiful.  Her scream had infuriated him —­he thought it would alarm the street, bring up the servant, and give rise to all sorts of scandal in which he might be implicated, and he roughly loosened her clinging arms from his neck and pushed her from him.

“Break your heart!” he exclaimed, bitterly—­“I wish I could break your temper!  You behave like a madwoman; I shall go away to my room!  When I come back I expect to find you calm, and reasonable—­ or else, gone!  Remember!”

She stood gazing at him as though petrified.  He swung past her rapidly, and opening the principal door of the studio passed through it and disappeared.  She ran to it—­tried to open it—­it was locked on the other side.  She was alone.

She looked about her bewildered, like a child that has lost its way.  She saw her pretty little velvet hat on the settee where she had left it, and in a trembling hurry she put it on—­then paused.  Going on tip-toe to the easel, she looked vaguely at her own portrait and smiled.

“You must be good and reasonable!” she said, waving her hand to it—­“When you have lost every thing in the world, you must be calm!  You mustn’t think of love any more!—­that’s only a fancy!—­ you mustn’t—­no, you mustn’t have any fancies or your dove will fly away!  You are holding it to your heart just now—­and it seems quite safe—­but it will fly away presently—­yes!—­it will fly away!”