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"
"He'd defile me?" she asked, laughing.
"Yes," said he seriously; the next moment he smiled and shrugged his
shoulders; he did not withdraw his seriousness but he apologised for it.
"Oh, I'd better get under a glass-case at once," she exclaimed, laughing
again impatiently.
"Yes, and lock it, and----"
"Give you the key?"
He laughed as he said, "The most artistic emotions have some selfishness
in them, I admit it."
"It would make a little variety if I sent a duplicate to Mr. Quisante!"
Here he would not follow her in her banter. He grew grave and even
frowned, but all he said was, "Really there are limits, you know." It
was her own verdict, expressed more tersely, more completely, and more
finally. There were limits, and Alexander Quisante was beyond them; the
barrier they raised could not be surmounted; he could not fly over it
even on the wings of his moments.
"You above everybody oughtn't to know such people," Marchmont went on.
Now he was thinking of the type she was supposed to represent; that was
the fashion in which it was appropriate to talk to the type.


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