"Was I ever an altruist, petite soeur? If the man had not made you happy, I should never have rested till I had you back again. As it is—" he shrugged his shoulders with an expressive turn of the hands—"one is glad—for your sake; and one makes the best of an empty house. But, mon Dieu! it is empty without you, Quita! You have light and fire in you;—now, more than ever. You have temperament. You inspire a man. Your absence actually affects the quality of my work. Absurd; but true! And as for my affairs—nom de Dieu, the money slips away like water, but the bills never get paid! You saw how it was when you came. And in one little week you go again, with a light heart; while I return, faute de mieux, to my 'wallowing in the mire!'"
"Mon pauvre Michel!" she said softly. "What a tragedy! You make me wish I was twins!"
But a smile gleamed through her tenderness; for, while she loved him dearly, she knew every turn and phase of his character; knew that the picture of desolation, so feelingly drawn, was seen for the moment through the magnifying lens of self-pity. Yet her concern for him was genuine, deep-rooted, a habit dating from the days of pinafores and broken toys. To keep Michael happy had, for long, been the chief part of her religion: the least of his troubles, real or imaginary, still had the ancient entry to her heart; and now she leaned impulsively towards him, elbows on knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes resting in his.
"It is not true that I leave you lightly, mon cher; nor that I love you less because I have given myself to another—body and soul. Indeed, I think the very bigness of my feeling for him has made love go deeper with me in all directions, has opened my eyes to see that to love means no less than changing the axis on which one's whole nature revolves. There's the stumbling-block with us artists. We rebel by instinct against anything that threatens to encroach upon our cherished ego; and excuse ourselves on the plea that it would undermine our art. But that is not true;—oh, believe me it's not."
Michael's shoulders went up again, and he smiled indulgently. But behind the smile lurked a shadow of gravity unusual in him. He had been aware of hidden changes in her, but this was his first glimpse into the depths.
"Possibly not, chérie—for a woman," he admitted grudgingly. "But for a man——"
"Yes, even for a man, dear ignoramus!" she broke in eagerly, setting her two hands upon his knees. "Love may fill more of a woman's horizon; but it goes deeper with men,—of the right sort, even if they are artists! Look at Browning. He knew. A big brain may set you on a pinnacle, Michel; but a big love keeps you human, sets your pulses beating in tune with all the hidden harmonies of the world."
A hot wave of shyness checked her. She withdrew her hands hastily, and sat upright.
"Tiens! But I am preaching! A new vice, n'est ce pas?"
"New enough to be interesting, . . and forgivable! What's your text?"