Neither spoke for a moment; then, still looking at him, she drew the ring from her finger, touched it again with her lips, and laid it gently in his hand.
"No, dear," she said.
He did not urge her; but she knew he still believed that she would come to think as he thought; and the knowledge edged her lips with tremulous humour. But her eyes were very sweet and tender as she watched him lay away the ring as though it and he were serenely biding their time.
"Such a funny boy," she said, "and such a dear one. He will never, never grow up, will he?"
"Such an idiot, you mean," he said, drawing her into the big chair beside him.
"Yes, I mean that, too," she said, impudently, nose in the air. "Because, if I were you, Louis, I wouldn't waste any more energy in worrying about a girl who is perfectly able to take care of herself, but transfer it to a boy who apparently is not."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean about your painting. Dear, you've got it into that obstinate head of yours that there's something lacking in your pictures, and there isn't."
"Oh, Valerie! You know there is!"
"No, no, no! There isn't anything lacking in them. They're all of you,
Louis—every bit of you—as far as you have lived."