"If not, you would have some aim in life--a calling or profession."

"And you think I have none?"

"Unless you consider it your vocation to be a wealthy American."

"I don't. Besides, I'm not wealthy. In point of fact, I ..." He pulled up
short, on the verge of declaring himself a pauper. "I am a painter."

Her eyes lightened with interest. "An artist?"

"I hope so. I don't paint signs--or houses," he remarked.

Amused, she laughed softly. "I suspected it," she declared.

"Not really?"

"It was your way of looking at--things, that made me guess it: the
painter's way. I have often noticed it."

"As if mentally blending colors all the time?"

"Yes; that and--seeing flaws."

"I have discovered none," he told her brazenly.

But again her secret cares were claiming her thoughts, and the gay,
inconsequential banter died upon her scarlet lips as a second time her
glance ranged away, sounding mysterious depths of anxiety.