CHAPTER IX
"Don't, please," begged Anne Bradford.
Her companion was silent. A moment before he had been eloquent.
"You are going to say, as you did four years ago, that you need me, that your art would be better for my companionship, and that I ought to sacrifice my work to yours."
Her voice, which she so wanted to be firm, choked a little. There was a pause, and still Howard Stanton said nothing.
"Your art doesn't need me so much as my own art needs me!" she cried passionately.
"Nannie," said the young man, "haven't you found out yet that your art needs me?"
"No indeed. You would ruin it. You would make me think about other people, and selfishness is the soul of my art. A very little of the brotherhood of man would spoil my pictures entirely."
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