As the months slipped away, and he had become more and more distracted by the contending forces that were eating deeply into his life, he had grown almost indifferent to his curiosity and only dreaded their meeting.
It was now October. The portraits had been practically finished long since. Day after day he had resolved to send that of Evelin March to the dealer for framing. He felt that he could then break away from her. But still he had hesitated and lingered, and now, when in a moment of recklessness he had taken a step nearer the brink of the precipice, she had spoken to him of their marriage. The idea stunned him; he could not reply. She believed his emotion had been caused by her rebuff, and laid her hand gently on his arm.
"Don't be angry, Paul," she whispered.
He had never seen her so subdued and beautiful as she was at that moment. He was nearer to loving her than he had ever been.
"Yes," he said, with some agitation, "we must—wait."
That night after supper he sought Harry Lawton, and unburdened himself.
"What shall I do, Harry?" he said, piteously; "what must I do?"
"Marry Eva Delorme and take a year's trip to Europe."
"But Eva hesitates—she has never yet given me a decided answer."
"Insist upon it. Then take her to the preacher at once, and fly."