"Well, how should I know that?" asked Jane.

"You couldn't unless you saw us--or were told. But now you know."

"Do you look beastly too?"

"Vile," he laughed.

"I'm glad I didn't think of going on the stage,"' she said, childish
yet very feminine unreason combining with atavistic puritanism. "I
shouldn't like to paint my face."

"You get used to it," said Paul, the experienced.

"I think it horrid to paint your face."

He swung to the door--they were in the little parlour behind the
shop--a flash of anger in his eyes. "If you think everything I do
horrid, I can't talk to you."

He marched out. Jane suddenly realized that she had behaved badly.
She whipped herself. She had behaved atrociously. Of course she had
been jealous of the theatre girls; but had he not been proving to
her all the time in what small account he held them? And now he had
gone. At seventeen a beloved gone for an hour is a beloved gone for
ever. She rushed to the foot of the stairs on which his ascending
steps still creaked.

"Paul!"