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           "Painters?AretherepaintersinNewYork?"askedBeaufort,inatoneimplyingthattherecouldbenonesincehedidnotbuytheirpictures;andMadameOlenskasaidtoArcher,withhergravesmile:"Thatwouldbecharming.ButIwasreallythinkingofdramaticartists,singers,actors,musicians.Myhusband’shousewasalwaysfullofthem."Shesaidthewords"myhusband"asifnosinisterassociationswereconnectedwiththem,andinatonethatseemedalmosttosighoverthelostdelightsofhermarriedlife.Archerlookedatherperplexedly,wonderingifitwerelightnessordissimulationthatenabledhertotouchsoeasilyonthepastattheverymomentwhenshewasriskingherreputationinordertobreakwithit."Idothink,"shewenton,addressingbothmen,"thattheimprevuaddstoone’senjoyment.It’sperhapsamistaketoseethesamepeopleeveryday.""It’sconfoundedlydull,anyhow;NewYorkisdyingofdullness,"Beaufortgrumbled."AndwhenItrytolivenitupforyou,yougobackonme.Come—thinkbetterofit!Sundayisyourlastchance,forCampaninileavesnextweekforBaltimoreandPhiladelphia;andI’veaprivateroom,andaSteinway,andthey’llsingallnightforme.""Howdelicious!MayIthinkitover,andwritetoyoutomorrowmorning?"Shespokeamiably,yetwiththeleasthintofdismissalinhervoice.Beaufortevidentlyfeltit,andbeingunusedtodismissals,stoodstaringatherwithanobstinatelinebetweenhiseyes."Whynotnow?""It’stooseriousaquestiontodecideatthislatehour.""Doyoucallitlate?"Shereturnedhisglancecoolly.