“Oh! do you want something of me?”
“Yes.”
“If you wish me to sit once more for you as I did the other day,” she continued with playful petulance, “I will never consent to do such a thing again, for your eyes say nothing all the while. You do not think of me at all, and yet you look at me—”
“Would you rather have me draw another woman?”
“Perhaps—if she were very ugly,” she said.
“Well,” said Poussin gravely, “and if, for the sake of my fame to come, if to make me a great painter, you must sit to some one else?”
“You may try me,” she said; “you know quite well that I would not.”
Poussin’s head sank on her breast; he seemed to be overpowered by some intolerable joy or sorrow.
“Listen,” she cried, plucking at the sleeve of Poussin’s threadbare doublet. “I told you, Nick, that I would lay down my life for you; but I never promised you that I in my lifetime would lay down my love.”
“Your love?” cried the young artist.