"You've kept them? I must pay my debt."
He shook his head. "They're not for sale. You shall see them when you come to my studio."
"You are an artist, too?"
"I paint," he replied simply. "When you are not busy with MacGregor, you will find work with me. We'll arrange that among us. Old Mac little dreams our secret."
"It is a secret?"
"With me, at any rate. I've never told. You see"—he looked away with a sudden diffidence almost boyish; then back again with a temerity that was boyish, too—"you see, I was jealous of my memories. I wanted to keep them wholly to myself. Our meeting was—how shall I say it?—a kind of idyl. And you—have you told?"
"Never."
"Was it partly for my reason?"
"Yes," she answered; "partly for your reason."
"But those clothes," he said, after a moment, "you'll smile when you see them. I've tried many a time to imagine you wearing them, braving the world as you planned so stoutly. Perhaps it would have been no harder than the other way. Perhaps—but that's over with, thank heaven! You've earned your freedom and have a brighter lot than a fugitive's to face. I don't mean a model's life. That will be temporary. There's something in you, something fine that only needs its chance. I can't tell you how I know this any more than I can tell you what it is, but I believe in it as I believe in my own existence. I know it's true, as true as the fact that we stand here face to face."