“Farewell, mademoiselle, until—until you can prove that I was mistaken. We shall not meet till then.” For a moment she gazed steadily at the artist, but he did not stir. He stood with his arms folded, his face impassive.
Slowly she turned, and with a stiff bow swept haughtily out of the studio.
“Now,” commenced Hugh, when the door had closed, “what explanation have you to give of this strange conduct, pray?”
“None.”
“That does not satisfy me.”
“My dear old fellow,” exclaimed Jack, stretching out his hand, “you—you understand; I cannot—I’m unable to give any.”
“Why?”
“Because it is impossible.”
“Do you love her?” asked Hugh fiercely.
“Love her!” the other echoed, with a short laugh. “I swear to you, upon my oath, I hate her! Have I not already long ago expressed my opinion?”