said--this very man who could not find
time to write--that he would wait ten years for her, and that she was
bound to come back to him sooner or later. He had said this in the
absurd letter about sunstroke and diphtheria; and then he had stopped
writing. He was wandering up and down moonlit streets, kissing cooks.
She would like to lecture him now,--not in her nightgown, of course,
but properly dressed, severely and from a height. Yet if he was kissing
other girls he certainly would not care whether she lecture him or not.
He would laugh at her. Very good.

She would go back to her studio and prepare pictures that went, etc.,
etc.

The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no section of it
might be slurred over, and the red-haired girl tossed and turned behind
her.

Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided that there could be no
doubt whatever of the villainy of Dick. To justify herself, she began,
unwomanly, to weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had said he
loved her. And he kissed her,--kissed her on the cheek,--by a yellow
sea-poppy that nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry rose in
the garden. Then there was an interval, and men had told her that they
loved her--just when she was busiest with her work. Then the boy came
back, and at their very second meeting had told her that he loved her.
Then he had---- But there was no end to the things he had done. He
had given her his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of
Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a
stimulant,--that was rude,--sable hair-brushes,--he had given her the
best in her stock,--she used them daily; he had given her advice that
she profited by, and now and again--a look. Such a look! The look of a
beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his mistress's feet. In
return she had given him nothing whatever, except--here she brushed her
mouth against the open-work sleeve f her nightgown--the privilege of
kissing her once. And on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not
enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled
the debt by not writing and--probably kissing other girls? 'Maisie,
you'll catch a chill. Do go and lie down,' said the wearied voice of her
companion. 'I can't sleep a wink with you at the window.'

Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting
on the meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had
nothing to do. The m