"I scarcely know what to say to you, for certainly it's your fault if you get on so fast."
"I'm too clever—I'm a humbug."
"That's the way I used to be," said Nick.
Miriam rested her wonderful eyes on him; then she turned them over the room, slowly, after which she attached them again, kindly, musingly, on his own. "Ah, the pride of that—the sense of purification! He 'used' to be, forsooth! Poor me! Of course you'll say: 'Look at the sort of thing I've undertaken to produce, compared with what you have.' So it's all right. Become great in the proper way and don't expose me." She glanced back once more into the studio, as if she were leaving it for ever, and gave another last look at the unfinished canvas on the easel. She shook her head sadly. "Poor Mr. Sherringham—with that!" she murmured.
"Oh, I'll finish it—it will be very decent," said Nick.
"Finish it by yourself?"
"Not necessarily. You'll come back and sit when you return to London."
"Never, never, never again."
Nick stared. "Why, you've made me the most profuse offers and promises."
"Yes, but they were made in ignorance, and I've backed out of them. I'm capricious too—faites la part de ça. I see it wouldn't do—I didn't know it then. We're too far apart—I am, as you say, a Philistine." And as Nick protested with vehemence against this unscrupulous bad faith, she added: "You'll find other models; paint Gabriel Nash."
"Gabriel Nash—as a substitute for you?"
