“You are still in love with him?” he said jealously. “Of course, I know a woman like you must have married for love. Tell me—you must answer me this one question, then I will respect your wishes.... Are you?”
She did not hesitate, but she made a deliberate pause, as though she were finally settling the question with her own heart.
“No, I no longer love him, because the man I loved does not exist.... Now go on with the picture. The light will soon go, and I want to see it finished. Please.”
Reluctantly he went back to the easel and took up his palette. She stood on the platform, watching him. He caught her look and squared his shoulders.
“This is going to be my best picture,” he said enthusiastically. “Love and beauty! Why, the very worst artist would be inspired. I know I can do big things if you encourage me.” He stopped, and then came back to where she stood. “Claudia, you never acknowledged you loved me. Say you do, dearest?”
His eyes were very beseeching and like a child’s, a little distressed at the doubt that had flung its shadows across his happiness.
“Claudia, you do love me?”
“I—I think I do, Frank. No, you must be content with that at present.” She waved him back.
“But some day you will love me as I love you.” His eyes were steady now, and the accent of the voice was that of the conquering male.