THE SACRED FOUNT
But there was that in me that could let him see he had far from done; and something, above all, told me now that he absolutely mustn't have before I had. I quickly moreover saw that I must, with an art, make him want not to. "Back to what she was when you painted her?"
He had to think an instant for this. "No—not quite to that."
"To what then?"
He tried in a manner to oblige me. "To something else."
It seemed so, for my thought, the gleam of something that fitted, that I was almost afraid of quenching the gleam by pressure. I must then get everything I could from him without asking too much. "You don't quite know to what else?"
"No—I don't quite know." But there was a sound in it, this time, that I took as the hint of a wish to know almost a recognition that I might help him.
I helped him accordingly as I could and, I may add, as far as the positive flutter he had stirred in me suffered. It fitted—it fitted! "If her change is to something other, I suppose then a change back is not quite the exact name for it."
"Perhaps not." I fairly thrilled at his taking the suggestion as if it were an assistance. "She isn't at any rate what I thought her yesterday."
It was amazing into what depths this dropped for
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