"And I am hopelessly ineligible," he laughingly said.
"Why?" asked the mother, quietly.
"Why! Do you know that I am nearing forty? Do you see the pepper and salt in my hair? After one passes twoscore it is time to think of the past, not of the future. I am over the brow of the hill; I see the easy decline of the road—it doesn't seem as long as when I climbed the other half." He smiled, threw back his strong shoulders, and inhaled a huge breath of air.
"Truly you are childish," she said; "you are at the best part of your life, of your career. Yes, Théophile, my husband, who is so chary in his praise, said that you would go far if you cared." Her low, warm voice, with its pleading inflections, thrilled him. He took her by the wrist.
"And would it please you, if I went far?" She trembled.
"Not too far, dear friend—remember Berenice."
"I remember no one but you," he impatiently answered; and relaxing his hold, he moved so that the moonlight shone on her face. She was pale. In her eyes there were fright and hope, decision and delight. He admired her more than ever.
"Let me paint you, Elaine, these next few weeks. It will be a surprise for Mineur. And I shall have something to cherish. Never mind about Berenice. She is a child. I am a middle-aged man. Between us is the wall—of the years. Never should it be climbed. While you—"
"Be careful—Hubert. Théophile is your friend."
"He is not. I never cared for him. He dragged me out here after he had been drinking too much, and when I saw you I could not stay away. Hear me—I insist! Berenice is nice, but the wall is too high for her to climb; it might prove a—"