e took his departure with the simple
pleasure of one fully paid for services not rendered.

And so, walking up and down, up and down, the sculptor waited for Nell's
knock. What would happen now? Thinking had made nothing clear. Here was
offered what every warm-blooded man whose Spring is past desires--youth
and beauty, and in that youth a renewal of his own; what all men save
hypocrites and Englishmen would even admit that they desired. And it was
offered to one who had neither religious nor moral scruples, as they are
commonly understood. In theory he could accept. In practice he did not
as yet know what he could do. One thing only he had discovered during
the night's reflections: That those who scouted belief in the principle
of Liberty made no greater mistake than to suppose that Liberty was
dangerous because it made a man a libertine. To those with any decency,
the creed of Freedom was--of all--the most enchaining. Easy enough to
break chains imposed by others, fling his cap over the windmill, and cry
for the moment at least: I am unfettered, free! Hard, indeed, to say
the same to his own unfettered Self! Yes, his own Self was in the
judgment-seat; by his own verdict and decision he must abide. And though
he ached for the sight of her, and his will seemed paralyzed--many times
already he had thought: It won't do! God help me!

Then twelve o'clock had come, and she had not. Would 'The Girl on the
Magpie Horse' be all he would see of her to-day--that unsatisfying work,
so cold, and devoid of witchery? Better have tried to paint her--with
a red flower in her hair, a pout on her lips, and her eyes fey, or
languorous. Goya could have painted her!

And then, just as he had given her up, she came.

After taking one look at his face, she slipped in ever so quietly, like
a very good child.... Marvellous the instinct and finesse of the young
when they are women!... Not a vestige in her of yesterday's seductive
power; not a sign that there had been a yesterday at all--just
confiding, like a daughter. Sitting there, telling him about Ireland,
showing him the little batch of drawings she had done while she was
away. Had she brought them because she knew they would make him feel
sorry for her? What could have been less dangerous, more appealing to
the protective and paternal side of him than she was that morning; as
if she only wanted what her father and her home could not give her--only
wanted to be a sort of daughter to him!