"The wind has dropped," said he. "The winds and the stars fight against me. We sha'n't be able to sail."
He took up the sculls, and rowed as if he were rowing a race.
"What's the matter?" asked Margery. "Why are you in such a hurry? It is not late."
"You don't understand," he said. "There is a hurry. I must get back. Oh, why can't you understand? I must have you or it, and you—you have given me up."
"Frank, what do you mean?" asked Margery, bewilderedly.
"You have given me up for it—it, that painted horror you saw, that—that— Margery, do listen to me just once more. You don't understand, dear, but I don't mind that. Only trust me; only tell me to stop painting it—to destroy it!"
He leaned on his oars a moment, waiting for her answer.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked. "Why do you speak to me like that? What nonsense it all is! I can't advise you to give it up because I think it much better for you that you should go on with it."
He waited for her answer, and then bent to the oars again. The green water hissed by them as the light boat cut through the calm surface. Margery was sitting in the stern managing the rudder, and it required all her nerve to guide the boat among the rocks that stood out from the shallower water. Frank's terrible earnestness troubled her, but it did not shake her resolution. Look at it what way she might, her deliberate conclusion was that it was better he should go on with it. There was no reason—there really was no reason why he should not, and there was every reason why he should. She wondered if he had better see a doctor. That he was in good health two days ago she knew for certain, but the mind can react upon the body, and his mind was certainly out of sorts. However, she had decided that the best ultimate cure for his mind was to finish the picture, and she determined to let things be.
"When will it be done?" she asked, after a pause.