She saw him fussing with his palette, colours, and brushes, watched him for a few moments, then she went away into the farther room where she had a glass shelf to herself with toilet requisites--a casual and dainty gift from him.
When she returned he was still bending over his colour-table; and she walked up and laid her hand on his shoulder--not quite understanding why she did it.
He straightened up to his full stature, surprised, turning his head to meet a very clear, very sweetly disturbed gaze.
"Kelly, dear, are you unhappy ?" "Why--no." "You seem to be a little discontented." [Illustration: "'Kelly, dear, are you unhappy ?'"] "I hope I am.

It's a healthy sign." "Healthy ?" "Certainly.

The satisfied never get anywhere....

That Byzanite business has begun to wear on my nerves." "Thousands and thousands of people have gone to see it, and have praised it.

You know what the papers have been saying--" Under her light hand she felt the impatient movement of his shoulders, and her hand fell away.
"Don't you care for it, now that it's finished ?" she asked, wondering.
"I'm devilish sick of it," he said, so savagely that every nerve in her recoiled with a tiny shock.