"Yes."

She followed him into the hall.

"I leave you to-morrow. There is no time to be lost."

"You are going back to art, George?"

"No! Never!"

Frances grew pale. She thought she had torn open his
gaping wound.

"I did not mean to remind you of--of----"

"No, it isn't that!"

He scowled at the fire. Art meant for him his own
countless daubs, and the sickening smell of oily paints
and musk, and soiled silk tea gowns, and the whole
slovenly, disreputable scramble of Bohemian life in
Paris.

"I loathe art!" he said, with a furious blow at the
smouldering log in the fireplace, as if he struck these
things all down into the ashes with it.

"Will you go back into the Church, dear?" his mother
ventured timidly.