"Do you mean," she said slowly, "that you think I underestimate you?"

"Not as I am. I don't amount to much; but I might if you cared."

"Cared for you?"

"No, confound it! Cared for what I could be."

"I--I don't think I understand. What could you be?"

"A man, for one thing. I'm a thing that dances. A fashionable portrait
painter for another. The combination is horrible."

"You are a successful painter."

"Am I? Geraldine, in all the small talk you and I have indulged in since
my return from abroad, have you ever asked me one sincere, intelligent,
affectionate question about my work?"

"I--yes--but I don't know anything about----"

He laughed, and it hurt her.

"Don't you understand," she said, "that ordinary people are very shy
about talking art to a professional----"

"I don't want you to talk art. Any little thing with blue eyes and blond
curls can do it. I wanted you to see what I do, say what you think, like
it or damn it--only do something about it! You've never been to my
studio except to stand with the perfumed crowd and talk commonplaces in