He sat looking at her.
"I know what you mean," he said at last. "Other women have thought as you, but when one has been gliding downward for a time one ceases to care about where to stop, as you call it." Stepping down from the wall, he went towards her and took her hand:
"Jenny, you will stop now, will you not?"
She rose, smiling:
"For the present, anyway. I think I am cured for a long time of that sort of thing." She shook his hand firmly: "Good-night; I'll sit for you in the morning," she said, going down the stairs.
"All right, thanks."
He remained on the roof for some time smoking, shivering a little, and thinking, before going down to his room.
Next day she sat to him after lunch until it grew dark; in the rests, they exchanged some insignificant words while he went on painting the background or washed his brushes.
"There," he said, putting down the palette and tidying up his paint-box. "That will do for today."
She came to look at the picture.
"The black is good, don't you think?"
"Yes," she said. "I think it is very effective."
He looked at his watch:
"It is almost time to go out and get something to eat—shall we dine together?"
"All right. Will you wait for me while I put on my things?"
A moment later when he knocked at her door she was ready, standing before the glass to fasten her hat.
