ou were born under a bridge?" exclaimed the excellent Crenmitz, who
could not accustom herself to the exaggeration of metaphors, and always
took everything literally.

"Let him think what he pleases, my Fairy. We haven't our eye on him for
a husband. I am sure he would have none of that monster known as an
artist wife. He would think he had married the devil. You are quite
right, Minerva. Art is a despot. One must give oneself to it
unreservedly. You put into your work all the imagination, energy,
honesty, conscience that you possess, so that you have no more of any of
them as long as you live, and the completion of the work tosses you
adrift, helpless and without a compass, like a dismasted hulk, at the
mercy of every wave. Such a wife would be a melancholy acquisition."

"And yet," the young man ventured timidly to observe, "it seems to me
that art, however exacting it may be, cannot take entire possession of
the woman. What would she do with her affections, with the craving for
love, for self-sacrifice, which is in her, far more than in man, the
motive for every act?"

She mused a moment before replying.

"You may be right, O wise Minerva! It is the truth that there are days
when my life rings terribly hollow. I am conscious of holes in it,
unfathomable depths. Everything disappears that I throw in to fill them
up. My noblest artistic enthusiasms are swallowed up in them and die
every time in a sigh. At such times I think of marriage. A husband,
children, a lot of children, tumbling about the studio, all their nests
to look after, the satisfaction of the physical activity which is
lacking in our artistic lives, regular occupations, constant movement,
innocent fun, which would compel one to play instead of always thinking
in the dark and the great void, to laugh at a blow to one's self-esteem,
to be simply a happy mother on the day when the public casts one aside
as a used-up, played-out artist."

And in presence of that vision of domestic happiness the girl's lovely
features assumed an expression which Paul had never before seen upon
them, and which took entire possession of him, gave him a mad longing to
carry away in his arms that beautiful wild bird dreaming of the dovecot,
to protect her, to shelter her with the sure love of an honest man.

She continued, without looking at him:

"I am not so flighty as I seem to be, you know. Ask my dear godmother if
I didn't keep straight up to the mark when she put me a