She still suffered, and Fenton's
brutal manner brought tears to her eyes, but she was benumbed and
dazed, and could neither think nor feel clearly.
"Grant found out himself," she said, "that I posed."
"Well?" Fenton demanded, with an intensity that made his smooth voice
hoarse.
"That's all," Ninitta responded dully. "I'm going away."
"Going away?" echoed Fenton, the words arousing again his fears that
the worst might have been discovered. "Then Herman does know?"
"He only knows that I posed," repeated Ninitta; "but he says Nino would
be ashamed, and I am going away."
"But where are you going?"
"Home; to Capri."
The artist looked at her with an impatient feeling that it was idle to
reason with her, and that she had somehow passed beyond his control. He
moved away a few steps, and sat down in an old carved monkish chair,
while his visitor leaned, as if for support, against the casing of the
door. He looked at her curiously, wondering what her mental processes
were like, and saying to himself, with mingled chagrin and philosophy,
that it was impossible to deal with a creature so irrational, but that
fortunately he was not responsible for her movements His glance
wandered about the studio, noting with artistic appreciation the
pleasant coloring of a heap of cushions thrown carelessly on the divan.
He wondered if it would have been better had he arranged that blue one
in a fuller light, as a background for the beautiful shoulder of his
_Fatima_, yet reflected that on the whole the value he had chosen
better brought out the quality of the flesh-tones.
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