"It's rather a wholesome sort of fear," he said.
"Wholesome as breakfast-food. I hate it. Besides, the fear doesn't exist any more," shaking her head. "Like the pretty girls in a very popular and profoundly philosophical entertainment, I've simply got to love somebody"—she smiled at him—"and I'd prefer to fall honestly and disgracefully in love with you—if you'd give me the opportunity." There was a pause. "Otherwise," she concluded, "I shall content myself with doing a mischief to your sex where I can. I give you the choice, Duane—I give you the disposal of myself. Am I to love—you?—or be loved by God knows whom—and make him suffer for it"—she set her little even teeth—"and pay back to men what man has done to me?"
"Nonsense," he said good-humouredly; "isn't there anything except playing at love that counts in the world?"
"Nothing counts without it. I've learned that much."
"Some people have done pretty well without it."
"You haven't. You might have been a really good painter if you cared for a woman who cared for you. There's no tenderness in your work; it's all technique and biceps."
He said gravely: "You are right."
"Am I?... Do you think you could try to care for me—even for that reason, Duane—to become a better painter?"
"I'm afraid not," he said pleasantly.
There was a silence; her expression changed subtly, then the colour came back and she smiled and nodded adieu.