"Why, you dull, young artist? Because I wanted to show her that you loved her; that you cared not two straws for that little slip of a girl to whom you were trying to play devoted. Because I wanted to show her that her great love is not wasted on an empty-pated ass."
"Her love!"
"Of course. Her love. She loves you, and has loved you for six years, and you were blind and did not know it."
"It is not true. It must not be so. She is a true, loyal wife to my friend."
"Bah! Do you want her to be loyal to that big boor of a husband when she loves you?"
"I refuse to listen to you any further. Now, let me tell you this. I am going away. I shall not see Olga again. I shall close my studio and return to Paris. And I wish not to see you again. Do you understand? I am going to bed now. When I awake I want you to be gone. Don't let me find you here."
"You are not hospitable, my dear young friend," Millar said, smiling and bowing. He seemed genuinely amused at the passionate outburst of the young artist.
"I believe you are the devil!" Karl cried.
"And you don't find the devil a pleasing personage to look upon, except when he is decked out by poets in the disguise of Cupid," Millar sneered.
Karl abruptly left the room, going into his own room and locking the door. He threw himself upon the bed and tried to sleep, but for hours he lay awake, haunted by the sinister shadow of his temptation.