Isn't she all right ?" "She's Cardemon's mistress," he said, bluntly.
A painful colour flushed her face and neck; and at the same instant he realised what he had said.
Neither spoke for a while; he went on with his painting; she, standing once more for the full-length portrait, resumed her pose in silence.
After a while she heard his brushes clatter to the floor, saw him leave his easel, was aware that he was coming toward her.

And the next moment he had dropped at her feet, kneeling there, one arm tightening around her knees, his head pressed close.
Listlessly she looked down at him, dropped one slim hand on his shoulder, considering him.
"The curious part of it is," she said, "that all the scorn in your voice was for Marianne Valdez and none for Penrhyn Cardemon." He said nothing.
"Such a queer, topsy-turvy world," she sighed, letting her hand wander from his shoulder to his thick, short hair.

She caressed his forehead thoughtfully.
"I suppose some man will say that of me some day....

But that is a little matter--compared to making life happy for you....

To be your mistress could never make me unhappy." "To be your husband--and to put an end to all these damnable doubts and misgivings and cross-purposes would make me happy all my life!" he burst out with a violence that startled her.
"Hush, Louis.