"No."
"I am counted sharp and able. They tell me I am brilliant. You are the most perfect thing that I have ever known. I think of you awake and asleep. I could paint a thousand pictures of you. My art seems to come back to me through you. If I live I will paint you in a hundred ways. Have you ever seen the Rossetti woman?"
"No."
"He painted a hundred portraits of her. I shall paint a thousand of you."
She lifted her eyes to look at him shyly, wonderingly, drawn by this terrific passion. His own blazed into hers. "Oh, look at me again," he whispered, when she dropped them under the fire of his glance.
"I can't," she pleaded.
"Oh, yes, once more."
She lifted her eyes and it seemed as though their souls would blend. He felt dizzy, and Suzanne reeled.
"Do you love me, Suzanne?" he asked.
"I don't know," she trembled.