Had Maddison known that West’s advice had been inspired by Marian he would have set it aside angrily, but in his ignorance he looked on it as curiously coincidental with much of what she had said to him, when she had urged upon him the necessity of their separating again. The fear of Squire’s persecution had been thrust into the background, and he had tried also to shake off the feeling that had gradually been growing upon him, that his love for her was interfering detrimentally with his work. “The Rebel” he believed, in fact he knew, to be the finest picture he had yet painted, and the portrait of Mrs. West would, he believed, be good; but beyond these two canvases he could not see. Marian seemed to stand between him and his inspiration, upon which he had never before called in vain, upon which, indeed, he had never before been compelled to call, for it had always come unsummoned.

Many difficulties faced him. He could not bring himself to sell “The Rebel,” even to West—it seemed like parting with Marian. The portrait would bring him in a large sum, but not sufficient to meet the expense of the coming year. His resources were low; he had always lived close up to his income, saving scarcely anything, and that little had now been drawn upon to the full. All this would not have mattered had he been alone, with only himself to care for; though fond of luxury, he was not a slave to it. But he had taken Marian into his charge, was responsible for her well-being, not only now, but under compulsion of honor and love not to leave her penniless if anything ill should chance to come to him. The fact that faced him was that he must set to work at once, must work rapidly and well. It was not essential that his pictures should be exhibited at any of the spring shows—the dealers were always ready to welcome and able to dispose of any work he could offer them. Nevertheless time pressed, unless he borrowed upon work undone, so mortgaging the future, of doing which he hated and feared the thought.

With Marian as model he could doubtless paint more than one picture, but strive as he would he could think of no subject; it was Marian as Marian who occupied him entirely, and to paint her portrait in this, that and the other attitude would be not merely banal, but distasteful to him. Further still, with her beside him, near him, within call, there seemed to be no room in his life for any other desire than to be with her, just to see her, to love her, to please her. On the other hand, if they parted, did the experience of the short separation through which he had gone hold out any promise of greater ability to work? Not much. But this new separation would be different; it would be caused by the necessity of work so that they might be together; the better, the quicker the work, the shorter the separation; surely that great incentive would spur him on to success? It was Marian alone whom he must consider. To go on as he was meant being forced to ask her to make sacrifices, and that idea he put behind him at once and finally. To go away for a while, with only occasional meetings with her during the next few months, was her own suggestion, based, indeed, upon other reasons than those upon which he would act, and he appreciated what he believed to be the loving unselfishness that inspired it, for to her, as to him, the parting and the separation would be full of pain. But did not love for her demand of him that he should pursue this course? After all, would not the resultant reward be great? It seemed to him that it refined and purified his love for Marian the making of this sacrifice for her sake. So far his passion had been entirely selfish; he had thought so little of herself and so much of himself; so much of what she gave him, so little of what he gave her; so much of his future with her, so little of what might come to her. It was hot passion at first, overwhelming passion for a beautiful, desirable woman; this passion had not decreased, had not in any way been satiated by possession, but added to it now was the other part of love, which is as unselfish as passion is selfish. Her happiness, her peace, her delight, how could he best secure them? It shocked him at first when he tried to reduce this vague wish to practicality, to find that the first thing he must do was to work for money. There was no escaping from that—he must make money; he must work. He could not work with her beside him—at least he could not do so now; perhaps the time would come when he could not work apart from her—perhaps that time had indeed come, though he did not know it—perhaps—perhaps—; so round and round in this circle his thoughts flew, and the one thing that came forth clear to him was that he must agree to Marian returning to town and to his not seeing her for some weeks.

He saw her off; stood looking after her, almost dazed, then turned away like one blind, and walked slowly home to the empty studio and the empty life.

Far different were Marian’s feelings on parting with him. His decision had taken her by surprise, until he had put fairly before her the reasons that were his motives. She had feigned willingness to share any degree of poverty with him, well knowing that she did not risk anything by so doing, but on the contrary fixed more firmly his determination to ask her for no sacrifice. Of Squire they had not spoken. She was not so inhuman as not to feel any touch of gratitude, or any spark of pity for the man who loved her so truly and so unselfishly; she almost wished she could have loved him; but being what she was, these emotions did not make her for a moment hesitate to pursue the course she had mapped out for herself. The love of power, which had once been her strongest motive, was growing weaker day by day; the love of luxury and pleasure growing in intensity; the world declining in its attractions; the flesh and the devil in her increasing in their sway over her wishes and actions. Philip West now attracted her chiefly as a rich man, only in the second place because of the satisfaction it would be to reduce a strong man to her command; Sydney Geraldstein appealed to all that was basest in her. She had not seen West since he had driven her in his car, but she knew that he would hear at once of her return to town, for Maddison had decided to call on Mrs. West, in order to arrange for the resumption of the sittings for the portrait. How soon would West come to see her? Would he come at all?

She had taken the precaution of telegraphing the hour of return, so found tea waiting ready for her, and the rooms looking very cozy. There were a few letters, bills chiefly, which might wait, as she didn’t want to bother Maddison with them just at once, and the dressmaker’s was for a considerable sum. Also a note from Geraldstein asking her to dine with him, curiously enough, this very evening; he would call for her at half-past seven, if he did not hear to the contrary.

Should she accept? He had asked her once before, but she had refused, chiefly because he appeared to be so assured that she would accept. Something in his dogged sensuality appealed to her; of course, acceptance would be taken by him, and must be meant by her, as the first sign of capitulation on her part, though she had no intention whatever of surrendering at once, if at all. The thought of West gave her pause. Geraldstein would leave and forget her very quickly—variety was the essence of his pleasures. West, if she secured him, might be a lifelong friend—but—was not variety growing to be a fascination to her? West was at Brighton—she would run the risk.

Geraldstein was shown into the drawing room, being told that Mrs. Squire would not keep him waiting more than a few minutes. An incredulous smile flitted across his heavy face, as he glanced impatiently at the clock, which pointed exactly to the half hour.

“It’s lucky,” he thought, as he lit a cigarette, “that we want women for pleasure, not for business. Time means nothing to them.”

He picked up the bills which Marian had left lying upon the mantelpiece, and looked at them quizzically. Then he glanced at a photograph of Maddison, and wondered how long the painter chap would be able to stand the racket. After a moment’s hesitation, he folded up the dressmaker’s account, and put it in his pocket. There was nothing else in the room that had any interest for him, save that he glanced at the music on the piano, and was surprised to find that it was not music-hall or musical comedy songs. Most of these women were such coarse brutes; there was something piquant and appetizing about Marian’s daintiness and culture.

She came quickly in, with a pretty plea for forgiveness.

“You’ve only kept me three minutes, but it seemed like an hour,” said Geraldstein restraining himself by an effort from giving way to the strong impulse to take her in his arms. “You’re evidently not an epicure, or you would know what a crime it is to keep dinner even three minutes late. However, with luck and a good horse we shall be in good time. I’ve booked my pet corner table at Goldoni’s, my pet waiter, ordered my pet dinner and my pet wine—all—in honor of you. Have you ever been to Goldoni’s?”

“Never; I’ve only heard wonderful tales of it—fairy tales, I always thought them.”

“Well, come along to fairyland.”

The few who can afford to dine at Goldoni’s seldom care to dine elsewhere, or rather when they are elsewhere they sigh for Goldoni’s. Marian was curious to see for herself what manner of place was this famous restaurant, and was duly grateful to Geraldstein for taking her there; she had feared that he might choose one of the less reputable haunts of merriment by night, which in his company might have proved distasteful.

Everything at Goldoni’s is refined except the company, which has but one common virtue, money. Outwardly, however, even the most gross conduct themselves there in seemly fashion. On one occasion only it had not been so, and the peccant guest had been politely but firmly refused a table when next he had desired to dine there. The warning had acted efficaciously and at the same time had vastly enhanced the renown of the place. With the exception that instead of one large there are many small tables in the dining room the effect aimed at and achieved is that of a wealthy private house; in fact, it is a private house in every way; there is no sign above the ordinary hall door, sedate green with ponderous brass knocker. Faultless footmen relieve the men of their coats and hats, and then usher them into the fine reception room where they wait for the ladies who are being attended by equally faultless maidservants. The dining room is a long, finely proportioned room, broken into halves by two graceful pillars; the fireplaces are exquisitely designed—the whole indeed is an admirable example of Adam’s best work. Along the top of the cornice, hidden from sight, runs a row of electric lamps by which, reflected from the ceiling, a cool light is shed on the apartment. The table appointments are perfectly simple, just those of any rich and refined household, and the attendance is—silent. For the cooking and the wines, “they are not perfection,” M. Goldoni frankly admits, adding: “but we strive after it.”

Though Geraldstein was not personally acquainted with any of the other diners, he knew many of them by sight and reputation.

“There—you see that thin little man over there, with the full-blown wife and half-ripe daughters—that’s Markham, the American millionaire, who has more money and less digestion than any man in the world. He never eats anything but peptonized biscuit and drinks warm water.”

“Why does he come here, then?”

“To see and be seen. One of the girls—the least unripe—is engaged to Lord Kent. That woman at the next table to us is a mystery; nobody seems to know for certain who she is, whether she’s a Russian spy, or the natural daughter of a Grand Duke—or both, or neither.”

Geraldstein chatted while Marian quietly but entirely enjoyed herself. There was a spice in the knowledge that her companion admired her, and that, boor as he was in many ways, he was sufficiently refined to appreciate her and to like to see her in a worthy setting. Her costume became her, was a perfect support to her beauty; the luxury around pleased her; for the time being she was content, and she did not permit any doubt of the future to depreciate the sure delights of the present.

The wine Geraldstein had chosen was one of those Bordeaux for which M. Goldoni’s cellar is far famed; a mellow, tender wine, whose subtle flavor passes like the vanishing of a dream, an innocent wine to the taste, but insidious, full of the warmth and languor of the sunshine that ripened the grapes from which it is crushed. Marian drank it slowly, fully appreciative; it fired her blood, brought added color to her cheeks and softness to her eyes. The subdued hum of conversation, the quiet light, the silent waiters, the delicious flavor of the foods, the wine—induced a gentle intoxication and a sense of unreality. She scarcely heard half of what Geraldstein said to her. After a while he too became almost silent, watching her with ever-increasing delight in her beauty.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked by and by.

“Very much. Did you think I wasn’t because I didn’t talk? I am enjoying myself—very much. I’d heard a lot about Goldoni’s, but it’s even better than they said it was. Everything’s puffect, so are most of the people. What a lovely woman that is—nearly opposite me—with the black hair and eyes.”

“That’s the Duchess of Bermondsey and the Duke. They’re a regular young Darby and Joan, always together and always looking happy.”

“Perhaps they are happy——”

“Why not? There are many varieties of happiness. I was amused looking over a woman’s confession-book once, to find that no two of her friends had—or confessed to having—exactly the same idea of happiness. I wonder what yours is?”

She turned quickly to him, his question jarring on her present mood.

“I’m a woman and change my mind every five minutes.”

“But now,” he persisted. “If I could satisfy any wish you had—what would you wish?”

“I don’t wish for anything—I’m quite content.”

“Quite content? That means you’re miserable. Life wouldn’t be worth living if there wasn’t something left we want and can’t have. I always seem to be wanting something. I shall look on it as a sign of old age when I begin to be content. That’s the one drawback to this place—it’s perfect. There’s only one perfection I’ve ever found that I wouldn’t have altered.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

“What an elaborately led-up-to compliment!” Marian said, laughing consciously. “How often has it done duty? Do you pay it to everyone who dines with you here?”

“Not—quite everyone,” replied Geraldstein, who behind his exterior heaviness hid a diplomatic readiness, which was sometimes near akin to wit. “No, I haven’t used it for a long time. Not since I met you.”

“Not since you met me?”

“No, for you’ve altered my standard of perfection.”

“That’s very nice, but perhaps that’s been said before too?”

“I don’t remember saying it to anyone else. But are you quite fair? If I didn’t do homage you would think me a fool, and when I do you call me a frivol. It’s not much of a choice for a fellow, is it? Ah! Happy interlude! Coffee. Goldoni’s coffee, and Goldoni’s fine champagne, I give you no choice. And a cigarette? It is allowed.”

Marian leaned back in her chair, supremely content; lazily happy, idly watching the other diners, satisfied with herself, kindly disposed even to her host.

“I hope you don’t mind my not having asked anyone else,” he said after a while. “I knew how much more I should enjoy myself this way, and—I’m nothing if not selfish. Have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Need you ask? Can’t you see?” she replied, looking at him with half-closed eyes. “It seems like a dream—don’t wake me from it.”

“Don’t let us wake from it till—to-morrow.”