Frank looked up suddenly at her.
"You too? Are you frightened too? God help me if you are frightened too!"
"No, I'm not frightened," said Margery, "but I'm angry and ashamed of you. You're no better than a silly child."
"Margery," said he, in his lowest audible tone, "I'll never touch the picture again if you wish. Tell me to destroy it and I will, and we'll go for a holiday together. I—I want a holiday; I've been working too hard. Or it would be better if you went in very quietly and cut it up. I don't want to go near it. It doesn't like me. Tell me to destroy it."
"No, no!" cried Margery, "that's the very thing I will not do. And fancy saying you want a holiday! You've just had two months' holiday. But that's no reason why you should work like a lunatic. Of course any one can go mad if they like—it's only a question of whether you think you are going to."
"Margery, tell me truthfully," said Frank, "do you think I am going mad?"
"Of course I don't. I only think you are very, very silly. But I've known that ever since I knew you at all. It's a great pity."
They strolled up and down for a few moments in silence. The magic of Margery's presence was beginning to work on Frank, and after a little space of silence he laughed to himself almost naturally.
"Margery, you are doing me good," he said. "I've been terribly lonely without you."
"And terribly silly, it appears."