Sophy grew paler and paler as the minutes passed. There was something strange and almost beautiful in Louise's face, something which had come to her lately, and which shone from her eyes only at rare intervals.
"You care for him, I believe!" Sophy cried at last. "You care for him!"
Louise did not move.
"Why not?" she whispered.
"You, Louise!" Sophy gasped. "You, the great artist! Why, think of the men who have tried to make you care—poets, musicians—so many of them, so many famous men! It can't be true. John Strangewey is so far apart. He doesn't belong to your world."
Louise leaned over and stroked her little friend's hair.
"Child," she said, "that's all very true. I have had it ringing in my brain for longer than you would believe. But now tell me something. No, look at me—don't be ashamed. Are you in love with John yourself?"
Sophy never hesitated.
"From the very first moment I saw him," she confessed. "Don't let that bother you, dear. He would never look at me except as a little pal. I never expected anything from him—anything serious, of course—never dared to hope for it. I have thrown myself at his head in the most shameless manner. It is all no good. I never met any one like him before. Louise, do you know that he is good—really good?"
"I believe he is," Louise murmured. "That is what makes it so wonderful."