"Oh, have you been there a week already?" she asked anxiously. "Then you'll go away soon?"
"I was going to-morrow."
"That's like last time. You were just going when I met you."
"But now I'm going to stay. I'm going to stay and paint you."
She jumped. "Oh!" she exclaimed, awe-struck. "Oh—"
"Paint you, and paint you, and paint you," said Ingram, "and see if I can catch some of your happiness for myself. Get at your secret. Find out where it all comes from."
"But it comes from you—at this moment it's all you—"
"It doesn't. It's inside you. And I want to get as much of it as I can. I'm dusty and hot and sick of everything. I'll come and stay near you and paint you, and you shall make me clean and cool again."
"The stuff you talk!" she said, leaning forward, her face full of laughter. "As though I could do anything for you! You're really making fun of me the whole time. But I don't care. I don't care about anything so long as you won't go away."
"You needn't be afraid I'm going away. I'm going to have a bath of remoteness and peace. I'll chuck the Glambecks and get a room in your village. I'll come every day and paint you. You're like a little golden leaf, a beech leaf in autumn blown suddenly from God knows where across my path."