wanted to be sure it wasn't in yours—"
"You ought to have known! Haven't you learned anything at all about me in two months?"
"Do you think any man can learn anything about anybody in two months?" he asked, lightly.
"Yes, I do. I've learned a good deal about you—enough, anyway, not to attribute anything—unworthy—"
"You silly child; you've learned nothing about me if that's what you think you've discovered."
"I have discovered it!" she retorted, tremulously; "I've learned horrid things about other men, too—and they're not like you!"
"Valerie! Valerie! I'm precisely like all the rest—my selfishness is a little more concentrated than theirs, that's the only difference. For God's sake don't make a god of me."
She sat down on the head of the sofa, looking straight at him, pretty head lowered a trifle so that her gaze was accented by the lovely level of her brows:
"I've long wanted to have a thorough talk with you," she said. "Have you got time now?"
He hesitated, controlling his secret amusement under an anxious gravity as he consulted the clock.
"Suppose you give me an hour on those figures up there? The light will be too poor to work by in another hour. Then we'll have tea and 'thorough talks.'"
"All right," she said, calmly.
He picked up palette and mahl-stick and mounted to his perch on the scaffolding; she walked slowly into the farther room, stood motionless a moment, then raising both arms she began to unhook the collar of her gown.
When she was ready she stepped into her sandals, threw the white wool robe over her body, and tossed one end across her bare shoulder.
He descended, aided her aloft to her own eyrie, walked across the planking to his own, and resumed palette and brushes in excellent humour with himself, talking gaily while he was working:
"I'm devoured by curiosity to know what that 'thorough talk' of yours is going to be about. You and I, in our briefly connected careers, have discussed every subject on earth, gravely or flippantly, and what in the world this 'thorough talk' is going to resemble is beyond me—"
"It might have to do with your lack of ceremony—a few minutes ago," she said, laughing at him.
"My—what?"
"Lack of ceremony. You called me Valerie."
"You can easily revenge that presumption, you know."
"I think I will—Kelly."
He smiled as he painted:
"I don't know why the devil they call me Kelly," he mused. "No episode that I ever heard of is responsible for that Milesian misnomer. Quand même! It sounds prettier from you than it ever did before. I'd rather hear you call me Kelly than Caruso sing my name as Algernon."
"Shall I really call you Kelly?"
"Sure thing! Why not?"
"I don't know. You're rather celebrated—to have a girl call you Kelly."
He puffed out his chest in pretence of pompous satisfaction:
"True, child. Good men are scarce—but the good and great are too nearly extinct for such familiarity. Call me Mr. Kelly."
"I won't. You are only a big boy, anyway—Louis Neville—and sometimes I shall call you Kelly, and sometimes Louis, and very occasionally Mr. Neville."
"All right," he said, absently—"only hold that distractingly ornamental head and those incomparable shoulders a trifle more steady, please—rest solidly on the left leg—let the right hip fall into its natural position—that's it. Thank you."
Holding the pose her eyes wandered from him and his canvas to the evening tinted clouds already edged with deeper gold. Through the sheet of glass above she saw a shred of white fleece in mid-heaven turn to a pale pink.
"I wonder why you asked me to tea?" she mused.
"What?" He turned around to look at her.
"You never before asked me to do such a thing," she said, candidly.
"You're an absent-minded man, Mr. Neville."
"It never occurred to me," he retorted, amused. "Tea is weak-minded."
"It occurred to me. That's what part of my 'thorough talk' is to be about; your carelessness in noticing me except professionally."
He continued working, rapidly now; and it seemed to her as though something—a hint of the sombre—had come into his face—nothing definite—but the smile was no longer there, and the brows were slightly knitted.
Later he glanced up impatiently at the sky: the summer clouds wore a deeper rose and gold.
"We'd better have our foolish tea," he said, abruptly, driving his brushes into a bowl of black soap and laying aside his palette for his servant to clean later.
For a while, not noticing her, he fussed about his canvas, using a knife here, a rag there, passing to and fro across the scaffolding, oblivious of the flight of time, until at length the waning light began to prophesy dusk, and he came to himself with a guilty start.
Below, in the studio, Valerie sat, fully dressed except for hat and gloves, head resting in the padded depths of an armchair, watching him in silence.
"I declare," he said, looking down at her contritely, "I never meant to keep you all this time. Good Lord! Have I been puttering up here for an hour and a half! It's nearly eight o'clock! Why on earth didn't you speak to me, Valerie?"
"It's a braver girl than I am who'll venture to interrupt you at work, Kelly," she said, laughingly. "I'm a little afraid of you."
"Nonsense! I wasn't doing anything. My Heaven!—can it be eight o'clock?"
"It is…. You said we were going to have tea."
"Tea! Child, you can't have tea at eight o'clock! I'm terribly sorry"—he came down the ladder, vexed with himself, wiping the paint from his hands with a bunch of cheese cloth—"I'm humiliated and ashamed, Miss West. Wait a moment—"
He walked hastily through the next room into his small suite of apartments, washed his hands, changed his painter's linen blouse for his street coat, and came back into the dim studio.
"I'm really sorry, Valerie," he said. "It was rotten rude of me."
"So am I sorry. It's absurd, but I feel like a perfectly unreasonable kid about it…. You never before asked me—and I—wanted to—stay—so much—"
"Why didn't you remind me, you foolish child!"
"Somehow I couldn't…. I wanted you to think of it."
"Well, I'm a chump…." He stood before her in the dim light; she still reclined in the armchair, not looking at him, one arm crook'd over her head and the fingers closed tightly over the rosy palm which was turned outward, resting across her forehead.
For
