"You're not going to put him into any masquerade?--to make him anything
but what he is?"

"Mary, don't you think that's a little hard on an old chum?"

"I can't help it." Her cheeks were hot, though now it was with shame.
"Yes, I am mean, jealous, envious. I see you with everything at your
feet--"

"Not quite everything," said Jerome. "I know it makes you hate me."

"No! no!" The real woman had awakened in her, and she turned to him in a
whole-hearted honesty. "Only, they say you do such wizard things when
you paint. I never saw any of your pictures, you know, except the ones
you did of me. And they're not _me_. They're lovely--angels with women's
clothes on. Aunt Celia says if I looked like that I'd carry all before
me. But, you see, you've always been--partial to me."

"And you think I'm not partial to Marshby?"

"It isn't that. It's only that they say you look inside people and drag
out what is there. And inside him--oh, you'd see his hatred of himself!"
The tears were rolling unregarded down her face.

"This is dreadful," said Wilmer, chiefly to himself. "Dreadful."

"There!" said Mary, drearily, emptying the pods from her apron into the
basket at her side. "I suppose I've done it now. I've spoiled the
picture."