“It makes no difference how you look; you would be the same to me in rags and mud. I love you for your strength.”
“And I?”
“You love me for what you see,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation.
“That’s not true,” he said, catching her shoulders.
“Not entirely,” she admitted, smiling. She studied him a moment, with a far-away anxiety and then added: “I want you to love me as an artist. I suppose I have queer ideas. Am I right?”
He caught her roughly to him with a laugh, well content.
“You are a profound philosopher, young lady,” he said; “you have analyzed the psychology of marriage admirably—though, at the bottom, I don’t believe you realize at all what makes you do what you do.”
“I want you to see me always at my best,” she said, smiling.
“The queer thing is I can never paint you,” he said, releasing her and frowning. “I have a feeling I never shall succeed. Heaven knows I’ve tried enough——”