Geoffrey gave her an eager glance. "Jove, there's more in that than a joke. Some day I shall get you to amplify your idea."
"I'll give it to you if you promise to write the book here. There's a balcony room that overlooks the river—and nobody would ever interrupt you but me, and I'd only come when you wanted me."
Marie-Louise's breath was short as she finished. To cover her emotion she caught up the wreath which she had made in the morning, and which lay beside her.
"I made it for you," she told Geoffrey, "and now that I've done it, I don't know what to do with it."
She was blushing and glowing, less of an imp and more of a girl than Richard had ever seen her.
Geoffrey rose to the occasion. "It shall be a mascot for my new book. I'll hang it on the wall over my desk, and every time I look up at it, it shall say to me, 'These are the laurels you are to win.'"
"You have won them," Marie-Louise flashed.
"No artist ever feels himself worthy of laurel. His achievement always falls short of his ambition."
"But 'Three Souls,'" Marie-Louise said; "surely you were satisfied?"
"I did not write it—the credit belongs to Mistress Anne. Your wreath should be hers."