CHAPTER IX
The picture made good progress, Maddison working at it with his whole heart. As her nature blossomed out before him, her joy in pleasure, he realized clearly and more clearly how unbearable must have been her life with Squire. His passion for her quickly settled down into an absorbing love; his power and reason soon returned to him; he knew that he had bought a beautiful and expensive toy; how long he could keep it, how long he would care to keep it, he did not ask. Sufficient for the day was the delight thereof.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked one morning, as she sat by the studio fire while he painted.
“About you.”
“What about me?”
“I was thinking—I often think—that I am keeping you a great deal from your friends. You’re with me almost every evening, and except when you’ve a sitter I’m with you almost every day. I don’t want to be a tie, a drag on you.”
“Don’t you know I’m happy that way?”
“Yes, George, I do. But it doesn’t do to try one’s happiness too hard.
“I won’t. Trust me. It’s partly accident that I’ve been nowhere lately, partly my habit. People used to ask me everywhere, but gave it up when they found I didn’t go anywhere. There are just a few houses always open to me, and a few pals come along here whenever they choose. I used to have jolly little informal suppers on Sundays last winter. We must start them again. A few men and women——”
“But—” she interrupted, raising her eyebrows and expressing by a motion of her hands that the women would consider her taboo.