thousands of young artists are working on unceasingly every day. Kirk's
ideas about it were in a delightfully vague state. He had a notion that
it might turn out in the end as 'Carmen.' On the other hand, if
anything went wrong and he failed to insert a sufficient amount of wild
devilry into it, he could always hedge by calling it 'A Reverie' or
'The Spanish Maiden.'
Possibly, if the thing became too pensive and soulful altogether,
he might give it some title suggestive of the absent lover at the
bull-fight, 'The Toreador's Bride' , or something of that sort. The
only point on which he was solid was that it was to strike the Spanish
note; and to this end he gave Ruth a costume of black and orange and
posed her on the model-throne with a rose in her hair.
Privately he had decided that ten minutes would be Ruth's limit. He
knew something of the strain of sitting to an artist.
'Tired?' he asked at the end of this period.
Ruth shook her head and smiled.
'You must be. Come and sit down and take a rest.'
'I'm quite all right, dear. Go on with your work.'
'Well, shout out the moment you feel you've had enough.'
He began to paint again. The minutes went by and Ruth made no movement.
He began to grow absorbed in his work. He lost count of time. Ruth
ceased to be Ruth, ceased even to be flesh and blood. She was just
something he was painting.
'Kirk!'
The sharp suddenness of the cry brought him to his feet, quivering.
Ruth was swaying on the model-throne. Her eyes were staring straight
before her and her face was twisted with fear.
As he sprang forward she fell, pitching stiffly head foremost, as he
had seen men fall in the ring, her arms hanging at her sides; and he
caught her.
He carried her to the couch and laid her down. He hung for an instant
in doubt whether to go for water or telephone for the doctor. He
decided on the telephone.
He hung up the receiver and went back to Ruth. She stirred and gave a
little moan. He flew upstairs and returned with a pitcher of water.
When he got back Ruth was sitting up. The look of terror was gone from
her face. She smiled at him, a faint, curiously happy smile. He flung
himself on his knees beside her, his arm round her waist, and burst
into a babble of self-reproach.
He cursed himself for being such a brute, such a beast as to let her
stand there, tiring herself to death. She must never do it again. He
was a devil. He ought to have known she could not stand it. He was not
fit to be married. He was not fit to live.
Ruth ruffled his hair.
'Stop abusing my husband,' she said. 'I'm fond of him. Did you catch
me, Kirk?'
'Yes, thank God. I got to you just in time.'
'That's the last thing I remember, wondering if you would. You seemed
such miles and miles away. It was like looking at something in a mist
