a daub! Do I not know what I meant it to be, and what it is! Do I not know how far it falls short of what I dreamed!"
She was silent for a moment Then she asked a question.
"I have more than once wanted to ask you, 'Do you think there is nothing worth living for but art?'"
"Indeed, I don't."
"I thought you didn't."
There was a dryness in her tone which stung him, especially after the glance with which his words had been pointed. He spoke coldly.
"There is only one thing better."
"Frankly, I am not quite sure what is my own mind upon the matter. There is so much talked about that sort of thing. But really I doubt if there is anything better worth living for than art."
"For a man there is a woman."
"You mean, I suppose, that for a man there are women."
"Miss Davidson! Don't say that." He put his hand upon her arm. His face was eager and flushed. "That, if you like, is the cant of the day. There is only one woman for a man."
She laughed.
"Suppose I put the converse, and say that for a woman there are men."
"Miss Davidson! That is not true!"
She laughed again, this time a little nervously.
"Don't let us stand in the middle of the room. Pray let us keep moving on."
Just then some acquaintances came up—acquaintances of hers, but not of his. He left her with them.
