"It can't be—it mustn't be! Oh, do, do give up the idea—for my sake! It'll be your ruin as an artist." She had risen to her feet, and was gazing at him appealingly.
"You dear little thing, what do you know about the French school or any other?"
"Everything. I take in 'Modern Art,' and I read all the magazines and things, and—I know all about it."
"You don't know anything about it. All the same——" he paused, biting his lip.
"All the same, what?"
"If I thought you cared a straw whether I went or stayed——"
"Haven't I shown you that I care?"
"No, you haven't."
"Ted!" Audrey made that little word eloquent of pleading, reproachful pathos; but he went on—
"For heaven's sake, don't talk any more rot about art and my genius! Anybody can do it. Do you think that's what I want to hear from you?" He checked himself suddenly. "I beg your pardon. Now I think we'll go on, if you don't mind sitting a little longer."