derstood me, and there is so much in my work
that you could help me in. You know things and the ways of doing things.
You must.'

'I do, I fancy, or else I don't know myself. Then you won't care to lose
sight of me altogether, and--you want me to help you in your work?'

'Yes; but remember, Dick, nothing will ever come of it. That's why I
feel so selfish. Can't things stay as they are? I do want your help.'

'You shall have it. But let's consider. I must see your pics first, and
overhaul your sketches, and find out about your tendencies. You should
see what the papers say about my tendencies! Then I'll give you good
advice, and you shall paint according. Isn't that it, Maisie?'

Again there was triumph in Dick's eye.

'It's too good of you,--much too good. Because you are consoling
yourself with what will never happen, and I know that, and yet I want to
keep you. Don't blame me later, please.'

'I'm going into the matter with my eyes open. Moreover the Queen can
do no wrong. It isn't your selfishness that impresses me. It's your
audacity in proposing to make use of me.'

'Pooh! You're only Dick,--and a print-shop.'

'Very good: that's all I am. But, Maisie, you believe, don't you, that I
love you? I don't want you to have any false notions about brothers and
sisters.'

Maisie looked up for a moment and dropped her eyes.

'It's absurd, but--I believe. I wish I could send you away before you
get angry with me. But--but the girl that lives with me is red-haired,
and an impressionist, and all our notions clash.'

'So do ours, I think. Never mind. Three months from to-day we shall be
laughing at this together.'

Maisie shook her head mournfully. 'I knew you wouldn't understand, and
it will only hurt you more when you find out. Look at my face, Dick, and
tell me what you see.'

They stood up and faced each other for a moment. The fog was gathering,
and it stifled the roar of the traffic of London beyond the railings.
Dick brought all his painfully acquired knowledge of faces to bear on
the eyes, mouth, and chin underneath the black velvet toque.

'It's the same Maisie, and it's the same me,' he said. 'We've both nice
little wills of our own, and one or other of us has to be broken. Now
about the future. I must come and see your pictures some day,--I suppose
when the red-haired girl is on the premises.'

'Sundays are my best times. You must come on Sundays. There are such
heaps of things I want to talk about