now I know I was wrong. I've got to paint. You'll have left me that,
at least."

"Mr. Merrill thinks you're ruining your career. And if you do, it'll be
my fault. I'll never, never, never," said the patroness of Art
desolately, "try to do any one good again!"

She turned toward the door.

"At least," said Julien in a voice which threatened to get out of
control, "you'll know that it wasn't all masquerade. You'll know why
I'll always keep the picture, even if I never paint another."

She stole a look at him over her shoulder and, with a thrill, saw the
passion in his eyes and the pride that withheld him from speaking.

"Suppose," she said, "I asked you to give it up."

"You wouldn't," he retorted quickly.

"No, I wouldn't. But--but--" Her glance, wandering away from him, fell
on the joyous line of Béranger bold above the door.

"'How good is life in an attic at twenty,'" she murmured. Then, turning
to him, she held out her hands.

"I could find it good," she said with a soft little falter in her voice,
"even at twenty-two."

Everything passes in review before my bench, sooner or later. The two,