So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. “Some day you will be my wife, and it would not be well for either of us to remember that in these unhappy days you and I were separated. But there was a face pressed to the glass. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. Blueskin will go with you,—for fear of a mistake.
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