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
