what I mean by the absence of a ground or of intervals. It's a kind of thing that's a labyrinth!"
"I know what I am," said Miriam, sententiously. But her companion continued, following his own train: "Were you really so frightened, the first day you went to Madame Carré's?"
She stared a moment, and then with a flush, throwing back her head: "Do you think I was pretending?"
"I think you always are. However, your vanity (if you had any!) would be natural."
"I have plenty of that—I am not ashamed to own it."
"You would be capable of pretending that you have. But excuse the audacity and the crudity of my speculations—it only proves my interest. What is it that you know you are?"
"Why, an artist. Isn't that a canvas?"
"Yes, an intellectual one, but not a moral."
"Oh yes, it is, too. And I'm a good girl: won't that do?"
"It remains to be seen," Sherringham laughed. "A creature who is all an artist—I am curious to see that."
"Surely it has been seen, in lots of painters, lots of musicians."
"Yes, but those arts not personal, like yours. I mean not so much so. There's something left for—what shall I call it?—for character."
Miriam stared again, with her tragic light. "And do you think I've got no character?" As he hesitated she pushed back her chair, rising rapidly.
He looked up at her an instant—she seemed so "plastic"; and then, rising too, he answered: "Delightful being, you've got a hundred!"
