your time with women who have something you want?"
Grover shrugged his shoulders with much the same implication that had characterized her own disposal of his inquiry as to her women friends.
"It gets on my nerves," she protested, sitting at his side and calling for the waiter with a tinge of boisterousness which was unlike her.
"I'm sorry," said Grover wearily. "You needn't wait if you would rather go."
Marthe sat in silence, and when he turned to look at her he found her weeping. He took her hand in his and stroked it.
Marthe was impatient with herself. As quickly as she could she regained control, and asked him in such a matter of fact tone what he had been doing all day that he laughed.
"Painting bad pictures," he replied.
"Of a woman?"
"No. Of a camelia."
She was biting her lips, but suddenly threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, smiling brightly through her tears. "Je t'aime, va!" she cried, and snuggled close beside him, listening to the tick of his watch, caressing his hands in her old trustful manner, her foot beating a quick nervous tatoo in time to the wretched music that was emerging from the back of the room, This hysteria was a characteristic reaction from the fits of extreme depression to which she was
