Then why, as he had put it to her, did she take up with him?  Young, beautiful, talented as she was, why had she wasted herself on a scrub?  Pity?  Hardly; she wasn’t sentimental.  There was no explaining her.  But in this passion that had seemed so fearless and so fated to be, his own position now looked to him ridiculous; a poor dauber without money or fame,—­it was her caprice to load him with favours.  Hedger ground his teeth so loud that his dog, trotting beside him, heard him and looked up.

While they were having supper at the oyster-man’s, he planned his escape.  Whenever he saw her again, everything he had told her, that he should never have told any one, would come back to him; ideas he had never whispered even to the painter whom he worshipped and had gone all the way to France to see.  To her they must seem his apology for not having horses and a valet, or merely the puerile boastfulness of a weak man.  Yet if she slipped the bolt tonight and came through the doors and said, “Oh, weak man, I belong to you!” what could he do?  That was the danger.  He would catch the train out to Long Beach tonight, and tomorrow he would go on to the north end of Long Island, where an old friend of his had a summer studio among the sand dunes.  He would stay until things came right in his mind.  And she could find a smart painter, or take her punishment.

When he went home, Eden’s room was dark; she was dining out somewhere.  He threw his things into a hold-all he had carried about the world with him, strapped up some colours and canvases, and ran downstairs.

VII

Five days later Hedger was a restless passenger on a dirty, crowded Sunday train, coming back to town.  Of course he saw now how unreasonable he had been in expecting a Huntington girl to know anything about pictures; here was a whole continent full of people who knew nothing about pictures and he didn’t hold it against them.  What had such things to do with him and Eden Bower?  When he lay out on the dunes, watching the moon come up out of the sea, it had seemed to him that there was no wonder in the world like the wonder of Eden Bower.  He was going back to her because she was older than art, because she was the most overwhelming thing that had ever come into his life.

He had written her yesterday, begging her to be at home this evening, telling her that he was contrite, and wretched enough.

Now that he was on his way to her, his stronger feeling unaccountably changed to a mood that was playful and tender.  He wanted to share everything with her, even the most trivial things.  He wanted to tell her about the people on the train, coming back tired from their holiday with bunches of wilted flowers and dirty daisies; to tell her that the fish-man, to whom she had often sent him for lobsters, was among the passengers, disguised in a silk shirt and a spotted tie, and how his wife looked exactly like a fish, even to her eyes, on which cataracts were forming.  He could tell her, too, that he hadn’t as much as unstrapped his canvases,—­that ought to convince her.