to wait for glory.' One afternoon, under the pretext of examining the
grove, I stole away to the studio, and pulled out some of the old
things that I had done in Paris--and sat and gazed at them. My throat
began to fill, and I felt the tears coming to my eyes, when I looked
around and saw her standing wide-eyed at the door.

"'What are you doing?' she said.

"'Looking at some of the old things.'

"'You regret those days?'

"'Of course not.'

"'Then why do you steal away from me, make a pretext to come here? Isn't
my love great enough for you? Do you want to put me out of your life
altogether? You used to tell me that I inspired you. If you want, we'll
give up the afternoons. I'll come here, I'll be your model, I'll sit for
you by the hour--only don't shut the door on me!'

"She began to cry. I took her in my arms, said everything that she
wished me to say, heedlessly, brutally, not caring what I said.

"That night I ran off, resolved to end it all--to save what I longed
for. I remained five hours trudging in the night--pulled back and forth.
I remembered my children. I came back,--told a lie. The next day I shut
the door of the studio not on her, but on myself.

"For months I did nothing. I was miserable. She saw it at last, and said
to me: