"Oh, Maryon"—breaking her pose to look across at him with a provoking smile—"can't you find my soul, after all?"
"I don't believe you've got one. Anyway, it's too elusive to pin down on canvas. Even your face seems out of my reach. You won't look as I want you to. Any other time of the day I see just the expression on your face want to catch—the expression"—his voice dropped a shade—"which means Nan to me. But the moment you come out here and pose, it's just a pretty, meaningless mask which isn't you at all."
He surveyed her frowningly.
"After all, it is your soul I want!" he said vehemently.
He took a couple of quick strides across the grass to her side.
"Give it me, Nan—the heart and soul that looks out of your eyes sometimes. This picture will never be sold. It's for me . . . me! Surely"—with a little uneven laugh—"as I've lost the substance, you won't grudge me the shadow?"
A faint colour ran up under her clear skin.
"Oh, I know it was my own fault," he went on. "There was a time, Nan, when I had my chance, wasn't there?"
She hesitated. Then:
"Perhaps there was—once," she acknowledged slowly.