The man clambered back to the ledge. “I’m not going,” he announced.
For a time, neither spoke. Each, with a consciousness of being much shaken, was seeking about for the safe ground of commonplace. The man’s face had suddenly become almost drawn. He was conscious of having been too close to the edge in more ways than one, and with the consciousness came the old sense of necessity for silence. He was approaching one of the moods that puzzled the girl: the attitude of fighting her off; the turtle’s churlish defense of drawing into himself.
It was Duska who spoke first. She laughed as she said lightly:
“For a man who is a great artist, you are really very young and very silly.”
His voice was hard.
“I’m worse than that,” he acceded.
For a moment more, there was awkward silence; then, Duska asked simply:
“Aren’t you going to paint any more?”
He was gazing at the canvas moodily, almost savagely.
“No,” he answered shortly; “if I were to touch it now, I should ruin it.”