"Wh—what?" she asked faintly.
"Intelligent interest in me."
"Do you mean," she said slowly, "that you think I underestimate you?"
"Not as I am. I don't amount to much; but I might if you cared."
"Cared for you?"
"No, confound it! Cared for what I could be."
"I—I don't think I understand. What could you be?"
"A man, for one thing. I'm a thing that dances. A fashionable portrait painter for another. The combination is horrible."
"You are a successful painter."
"Am I? Geraldine, in all the small talk you and I have indulged in since my return from abroad, have you ever asked me one sincere, intelligent, affectionate question about my work?"