"I—yes—but I don't know anything about——"
He laughed, and it hurt her.
"Don't you understand," she said, "that ordinary people are very shy about talking art to a professional——"
"I don't want you to talk art. Any little thing with blue eyes and blond curls can do it. I wanted you to see what I do, say what you think, like it or damn it—only do something about it! You've never been to my studio except to stand with the perfumed crowd and talk commonplaces in front of a picture."
"I can't go alone."
"Can't you?" he asked, looking closely at her in the dusk, so close that she could see every mocking feature.
"Yes," she said in a low, surprised voice, "I could go alone—anywhere—with you.... I didn't realise it before, Duane."
"You never tried. You once mistook an impulse of genuine passion for the sort of thing I've done since. You made a terrific fuss about being kissed when I saw, as soon as I saw you, that I wanted to win you, if you'd let me. Since then you've chosen the key-note of our relations, not I, and you don't like my interpretation of my part."
For a while she sat silent, preoccupied with this totally new revelation of a man about whom she supposed she had long ago made up her mind.
"I'm glad we've had this talk," she said at last.