“You know,” she whispered, once more in the shelter of the shabby shoulder.
“This is madness,” he swore as he kissed her; “we’re both out of our senses, Nancy; don’t you know it?”
“The picture is done, anyhow,” she said. “I don’t know how I can ever bear to look it in the face, but I shall have to.”
“It’s the best work I’ve ever done,” he said.
“I don’t look like it now, do I?”
He held her off to see.
“No, by jove, you don’t. It’s gone, now—just that thing I painted.”
“How do I look now?”
“Much more commonplace from the point of view from which I painted you. Much more beautiful though,—much more beautiful.”