"What have I made you sure of?"
"Sure that you are incapable, not of loving perhaps, but of loving a certain kind of woman the way she wants to be loved. You can't help it. As I said before, it is the difference in the point of view. We should get no nearer if we talked till doomsday."
"My point of view, as you call it, has entirely changed."
"No. It is I who have changed. Your point of view is, and always will be, the same."
He tried hard to understand.
"Does it come to this—that if I had loved you then you would have loved me now?"
"You couldn't have loved me then. You were not that sort."
He understood her meaning and it maddened him. "It wasn't my fault. How the devil was I to see?"
"Exactly, how were you? There are some things which you can't see. You can see everything you can paint, and, as you are a very clever artist, I dare say you can paint most things you can see."
"What has that got to do with it?"