You admit it is a masterpiece--that is enough for me. It is
my own work, and you know it is!"
"Dear little one!" he said, laughing forcedly, "How do I know? You
have never admitted me into the studio once while you were at work!"
"Florian!"
The exclamation broke from her lips like a cry of physical pain.
"That was a mistake of yours!" he went on recklessly, his eyes
beginning to glitter with the fever raging in his mind, "You should
not have shut the doors against your lover, my beloved! Nor would
you admit your father either! That looks very strange!"
White as a snowflake, yet with blazing eyes, Angela turned upon him.
"Florian!" she said, "Do you--you of all people in the world--you to
whom I have given all my love and confidence--mean to suggest that
my work is not my own?"
He looked at her, smiling easily.
"Sweet Angela, not I! I know your genius--I worship it! See!" and
with a light grace he dropped on one knee, and snatching her hand,
kissed it--then springing up again, he said, "You are a great
creature, my Angela!--the greatest artist in the world,--IF WE CAN
ONLY MAKE THE WORLD BELIEVE IT!"
Something in his voice, his manner, moved her to a vague touch of
dread. Earnestly she looked at him,--wonderingly, and with a
passionate reproach in her pure, true eyes.
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