Her gentleness with him, and her sweet way of reasoning made him ashamed.
"It's the crowd that's going, Valerie—Cardemon, Querida, Marianne
Valdez—where did you meet her, anyway?"
"In her dressing room at the Opera. She's perfectly sweet. Isn't she all right?"
"She's Cardemon's mistress," he said, bluntly.
A painful colour flushed her face and neck; and at the same instant he realised what he had said.
Neither spoke for a while; he went on with his painting; she, standing once more for the full-length portrait, resumed her pose in silence.
After a while she heard his brushes clatter to the floor, saw him leave his easel, was aware that he was coming toward her. And the next moment he had dropped at her feet, kneeling there, one arm tightening around her knees, his head pressed close.
Listlessly she looked down at him, dropped one slim hand on his shoulder, considering him.
"The curious part of it is," she said, "that all the scorn in your voice was for Marianne Valdez and none for Penrhyn Cardemon."
He said nothing.