k--he had seen her
scarcely at all. Only twice--when she with many others had stood in
the doorway to watch his work. She had smiled at him then, as though
it were her work, too, as though it were a joint proprietorship--but
she had gone before he could speak to her. And at the cottage, when he
had been there at the invitation of Myrna or her father, Marie-Louise,
strangely enough, now that he thought of it, was never to be seen.

He would have to speak to her, of course, about going away; but what
chance, with the whirl he had been in, had he had to do it? She would
know that he was going to Paris, for everybody knew it--but he would
have to speak to her himself about it before he went. And what was he
to say? Certainly, he loved Marie-Louise--but the great chance of his
life was before him. What was he to say to her? He would go to Paris
for a time, make this great name for himself, and then
afterwards--_what_?

He refused to tolerate the question. He had refused to tolerate it all
week. It was enough for the present that he was going for a time to
Paris. Marie-Louise was sensible enough not to make a scene. She
could see readily enough that he must go and that she must stay. How,
for instance, could she associate with women of fashion and society
like Myrna Bliss, who would be the women of the new world that must
necessarily form part of his life hereafter. What was he thinking of?
Was it the "afterwards" again? Was he not coming back to Marie-Louise?
Was he choosing now between his art and Marie-Louise? No; he was
not--he would not! That was an issue for the future. It would work
itself out. Why should he plague himself about it!

He loved Marie-Louise, of course; but it would have been easier now if
there had been nothing between them. He could not go to Marie-Louise
and say: Marie-Louise, I love you; but it is finished--you can see that
the _grand monde_ would make a very great difference between Jean
Laparde, the great sculptor, and Marie-Louise the fisherwoman of
Bernay-sur-Mer. No; he could not say that, but--_sacre nom_!--was he
back to the everlasting "afterwards" again, when he refused so
resolutely to go beyond the present? Was it not enough that he was
simply going to Paris for a time--a matter that would seem natural
enough to her, and of which she would be glad because great things had
come to him? He would talk to her like that--that would be
enough--Marie-Louise was a sensible