swered. "It unfortunately isn't a question of changing my mind."
"You promised four years ago not to follow me."
"I didn't follow. I came here to design frescoes. Fate, not I, broke that promise."
The little artist leaned back in the great leather-cushioned chair. Her hands were clasped nervously in her lap. Her face was puzzled.
"I don't see why you care for me in that way," she said mournfully. "I'm an ugly, strong-minded old maid of thirty. I'm not the kind of person to fall in love with. I'm the kind of person who works."
"You aren't thirty. You were twenty-seven on the second day of April. And I didn't fall in love with you. I have loved you ever since I can remember,—at five, ten, sixteen, and ever since. My love for you is one of the constants in my character."
He drew from his pocket a tiny photograph. It was the thin, eager face of a little girl of thirteen.
