“She tells the truth—although she draws upon her imagination. West suggested my doing so, but I haven’t agreed yet.”
“Have you met Miss Lane?”
“Once, at dinner.”
“She’s worth studying. Worth painting too.”
“Oh!”
“Not I. I don’t even like her. A man never falls in love with a woman he studies, but with the woman who studies him. I must be off. See you again soon. Let me hear from you if you run away.”
As he walked homeward, Maddison pondered over the problem, oblivious of people and places. Squire’s intrusion into his life had brought home to him that Marian and the joy of life were one for him. He had entered into this intrigue to a certain extent deliberately, but had not contemplated the possibility of Marian’s attraction for him becoming anything stronger than a mere physical appeal to his sensuous nature. He had always believed that art was the only impulse in his life, that in all else he was governed by his reason. He did not drink too much, because reason and experience told him that after a certain point wine became a tasteless stimulant. He did not permit any woman entirely to captivate him. Experience and reason—so he thought—taught him that women were like wine.
But Marian had won a place in his life that no other woman had ever approached. For a moment, the night before, Squire’s attack had made him think that a temporary separation between himself and Marian might be necessary, and the mere notion had struck him with a chill, sick fear. Everything in his life belonged to her. All that he attempted or accomplished in his daily round or in his work centered on her; she was his motive power. Another matter had recently come home to him; he had never been extravagant, but had always lived fairly up to his means. His support of Marian had made heavy demand, not only upon his income but upon the small amount he had saved, and he was now face to face with the necessity of adding largely to his earnings.
He had never condescended to force his art, never painted for money alone. Inspiration, not necessity, had been the mother of his invention. Even in the painting of portraits he had held himself entirely free to refuse any commission that was not entirely to his taste. Now, however, he was no longer free; he must paint for money or curtail his expenditure. To do the latter would mean depriving Marian of certain pleasures and luxuries, the doing of which would be abhorrent to him. Not for an instant did it occur to him to question Marian’s loyalty; could he offer her only a cottage and country fare that would suffice her. When she first came to him, he believed that his chief claim upon her was that he offered her freedom. But he now felt assured that as his love for her had grown deeper and deeper so had hers for him.
Therefore for more reasons than one, the idea of a country retreat appealed to him strongly. While there he would be altogether with Marian; he could at the same time work strenuously, he could live inexpensively.