72 The Light That Failed Maisie’s pictures, and then to criticize and advise upon them as he realized that they were productions on which advice would not be wasted. Sunday after Sunday, and his love grew with each visit, he had been compelled to cram his heart back from between his lips when it prompted him to kiss Maisie several times and very much indeed. Sunday after Sunday, the head above the heart had warned him that Maisie was not yet attainable, and that it would be better to talk as connectedly as possible upon the mysteries of the craft that was all in all to her. Therefore it was his fate to endure weekly torture in the studio built out over the clammy back garden of a frail stuffy little villa where nothing was ever in its right place and nobody every called, — to endure and to watch Maisie moving to and fro with the teacups. He abhorred tea, but, since it gave him a little longer time in her presence, he drank it devoutly, and the red-haired girl sat in an untidy heap and eyed him without speaking. She was always watching him. Once, and only once, when she had left the studio, Maisie showed him an album that held a few poor cuttings from provincial papers, — the briefest of hurried notes on some of her pictures sent to outlying exhibitions. Dick stooped and kissed the paintsmudged thumb on the open page. “Oh, my love, my love,” he muttered, “do you value these things? Chuck "em into the waste-paper basket!” “Not till I get something better,” said Maisie, shutting the book. Then Dick, moved by no respect for his public and a very deep regard for the maiden, did deliberately propose, in order to secure more of these coveted cuttings, that he should paint a picture which Maisie should sign. “That’s childish,” said Maisie, “and I didn’t think it of you. It must be my work. Mine, — mine, — mine!”