Chapter 6

'And you may lead a thousand men,
Nor ever draw the rein,
But ere ye lead the Faery Queen
'Twill burst your heart in twain.'?

He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar,
The bridle from his hand,
And he is bound by hand and foot
To the Queen o' Faery-land.
--Sir Hoggie and the Fairies.

SOME weeks later, on a very foggy Sunday, Dick was returning across
the Park to his studio. 'This,' he said, 'is evidently the thrashing that
Torp meant. It hurts more than I expected; but the Queen can do no
wrong; and she certainly has some notion of drawing.'

He had just finished a Sunday visit to Maisie,--always under the green
eyes of the red-haired impressionist girl, whom he learned to hate at
sight,--and was tingling with a keen sense of shame. Sunday after
Sunday, putting on his best clothes, he had walked over to the untidy
house north of the Park, first to see Maisie's pictures, and then to
criticise and advise upon them as he realised 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 paint-smudged 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!'

'Go and design