“I can't believe it,” said Kent earnestly. “You are not the woman to neglect your art out of pure idleness. Come, Clytie, rouse yourself and paint a great picture. The 'Faustina'—what has become of that?”
“Oh, don't, don't!” she cried, putting her hands up before her face. “I can't do that now—can't think of it. Years hence, perhaps, when I am a middle-aged woman, if I find it good enough to live till then, I may try—but not now.”
Kent laid down his pipe and drew his chair near to her. He was pained and troubled. He saw that her nerves were a little unstrung; but the Clytie he knew was the last woman in the world to give way to attacks of this kind. And then a dreary conjecture dawned upon him, and his heart sank.
“My poor Clytie!” he said in his kind way. “You seem unhappy. I wish I could do something to help you.”
“Ah! it's too late now,” she said impulsively, scarcely heeding the purport of her words. “You might have done it eighteen months ago—if you had not been quixotic.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, more and more troubled and at fault. “Eighteen months ago? How could I have helped you? I loved you and hid it from you. I could only have caused you pain. I love you now. I don't hide it. Why should I? I am ready to help you if I can. I am stronger, wiser now than I was then. How could I have helped you then?”
The simplicity of his short, reiterative sentences and the sincerity of his tone went to her heart, “You could have helped me then by not hiding it.”
“I don't understand,” he said. “How could the knowledge that I loved you have helped you, unless you cared for me?”
“Perhaps I might have cared for you,” she said wearily.
“Oh, God, Clytie! don't say that. It is cruel!” he cried, starting to his feet in great agitation. “I know I acted like a fool, but it was with true motives. Don't twit me with them. It is more than I can bear.”