Too Late.
“And my poor painting,” said Armstrong, smiling, as Valentina, cloaked and ready to go once more, still clung to him—“not a step farther;” and he unlocked the door.
“No,” she whispered softly, “not a step farther,” and she looked up through her thick veil in his saddened face. “Let fate be kind to us and the work go on for years and years.”
“Until I am old and grey.”
“And I a bent, withered creature,” she whispered. “No; you will never be old and grey in my eyes, but always the same as now. Can you say that to me?”
She laid her hands upon his shoulders, and forced him back, so that she could gaze searchingly in his eyes.
“Yes!” he cried passionately. “You know only too well.”
“Yes, I know it well,” she murmured. “And it shall go on and on. What is the praise of a fickle public worth? It is your masterpiece, but what of that? It might bring you fame and fortune, but it has already brought us love that can know no change.”
“That can know no change, dearest. Now you must go, or you will be breaking faith with me again to-morrow, and you have made me so that I cannot live without you now.”
“Yes, once more,” she sighed, “I must go—back to my gilded prison.”