“I am at work,” Carnac said cheerfully.
“Work is not all paint and canvas of course. There has to be the thinking beforehand. Well, of what are you thinking now?”
“Of the evening train to New York.”
His face was turned away from her at the instant, because he did not wish to see the effect of his words. He would have seen that apprehension came to her eyes. Her mouth opened in quick amazement. It was all too startling. He was going—for how long?
“Why are you going?” she asked, when she had recovered her poise.
“Well, you see I haven’t quite learned my painting yet, and I must study in great Art centres where one isn’t turned down by one’s own judgment.”
“Ananias!” she said at last. “Ananias!”
“Why do you say I’m a liar?” he asked, flushing a little, though there was intense inquiry in his eyes. “Because I think it. It isn’t your work only that’s taking you away.” Suddenly she laughed. “What a fool you are, Carnac! You’re not a good actor. You’re not going away for work’s sake only.”
“Not for work’s sake only—that’s true.”
“Then why do you go?”