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look out for myself."

      Madeline wrinkled her brows.

      "What's the reason?" she asked, after a pause.

      "The old trouble. He says I've had quite long enough to make my way as an artist, if I'm going to make it at all. In his opinion, I am simply wasting my time and his money. No cash results; that is to say, no success. Of course, his view."

      The girl kept silence. Marsh shifted his position slightly, so as to get a view of her face.

      "Somebody else's too, I'm half afraid," he murmured dubiously.

      Madeline was thinking of a look she had caught on Miss Doran's face when the portfolio disclosed its contents; of Miss Doran's silence; of certain other person' looks and silence—or worse than silence. The knitting of her brows became deeper; Marsh felt an uneasy movement in her frame.

      "Speak plainly," he said. "It's far better."

      "It's very hot, Clifford. Sit on a chair; we can talk better."

      "I understand."

      He moved a little away from her, and looked round the room with a smile of disillusion.

      "You needn't insult me," said Madeline, but not with the former petulance; "Often enough you have done that, and yet I don't think I have given you cause."

      Still crouching upon the stool, he clasped his hands over his knee, jerked his head back—a frequent movement, to settle his hair—and smiled with increase of bitterness.

      "I meant no insult," he said, "either now or at other times, though you are always ready to interpret me in that way. I merely hint at the truth, which would sound disagreeable in plain terms."

      "You mean, of course, that I think of nothing—have never thought of anything—but your material prospects?"

      "Why didn't you marry me a year ago, Mad?"

      "Because I should have been mad indeed to have done so. You admit it would have caused your step-father at once to stop his allowance. And pray what would have become of us?"

      "Exactly. See your faith in me, brought to the touchstone!"

      "I suppose the present day would have seen you as it now does?"

      "Yes, if you had embarrassed me with lack of confidence. Decidedly not, if you had been to me the wife an artist needs. My future has lain in your power to make or mar. You have chosen to keep me in perpetual anxiety, and now you take a suitable opportunity to overthrow me altogether; or rather, you try to. We will see how things go when I am free to pursue my course untroubled."

      "Do so, by all manner of means!" exclaimed Madeline, her voice trembling. "Perhaps I shall prove to have been your friend in this way, at all events. As your wife in London lodgings on the third floor, I confess it is very unlikely I should have aided you. I haven't the least belief in projects of that kind. At best, you would have been forced into some kind of paltry work just to support me—and where would be the good of our marriage? You know perfectly well that lots of men have been degraded in this way. They take a wife to be their Muse, and she becomes the millstone about their neck; then they hate her—and I don't blame them. What's the good of saying one moment that you know your work can never appeal to the multitude, and the next, affecting to believe that our marriage would make you miraculously successful?"

      "Then it would have been better to part before this."

      "No doubt—as it turns out."

      "Why do you speak bitterly? I am stating an obvious fact."

      "If I remember rightly, you had some sort of idea that the fact of our engagement might help you. That didn't seem to me impossible. It is a very different thing from marriage on nothing a year."

      "You have no faith in me; you never had. And how could you believe in what you don't understand? I see now what I have been forced to suspect—that your character is just as practical as that of other women. Your talk of art is nothing more than talk. You think, in truth, of pounds, shillings and pence."

      "I think of them a good deal," said Madeline, "and I should be an idiot if I didn't. What is art if the artist has nothing to live on? Pray, what are you going to do henceforth? Shall you scorn the mention of pounds, shillings and pence? Come to see me when you have had no dinner to-day, and are feeling very uncertain about breakfast in the morning, and I will say, 'Pooh! your talk about art was after all nothing but talk; you are a sham!'"

      Marsh's leg began to ache. He rose and moved about the room. Madeline at length turned her eyes to him; he was brooding genuinely, and not for effect. Her glance discerned this.

      "Well, and what are you going to do, in fact?" she asked.

      "I'm hanged if I know, Mad; and there's the truth."

      He turned and regarded her with wide eyes, seriously perceptive of a blank horizon.

      "I've asked him to let me have half the money, but he refuses even that. His object is, of course, to compel me into the life of a Philistine. I believe the fellow thinks it's kindness; I know my mother does. She, of course, has as little faith in me as you have."

      Madeline did not resent this. She regarded the floor for a minute, and, without raising her eyes, said:

      "Come here, Clifford."

      He approached. Still without raising her eyes, she again spoke.

      "Do you believe in yourself?"

      The words were impressive. Marsh gave a start, uttered an impatient sound, and half turned away.

      "Do you believe in yourself, Clifford?"

      "Of course I do!" came from him blusterously.

      "Very well. In that case, struggle on. If you care for the kind of help you once said I could give you. I will try to give it still. Paint something that will sell, and go on with the other work at the same time."

      "Something that will sell!" he exclaimed, with disgust. "I can't, so there's an end of it."

      "And an end of your artist life, it seems to me. Unless you have any other plan?"

      "I wondered whether you could suggest any."

      Madeline shook her head slowly. They both brooded in a cheerless way. When the girl again spoke, it was in an undertone, as if not quite sure that she wished to be heard.

      "I had rather you were an artist than anything else, Clifford."

      Marsh decided not to hear. He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, and trod about the floor heavily. Madeline made another remark.

      "I suppose the kind of work that is proposed for you would leave you no time for art?"

      "Pooh! of course not. Who was ever Philistine and artist at the same time?"

      "Well, it's a bad job. I wish I could help you. I wish I had money.

      "If you had, I shouldn't benefit by it," was the exasperated reply.

      "Will you please to do what you were going to do at first, and tell Barbara I wish to speak to her?"

      "Yes, I will."

      His temper grew worse. In his weakness he really had thought it likely that Madeline would suggest something hopeful. Men of his stamp constantly entertain unreasonable expectations, and are angry when the unreason is forced upon their consciousness.

      "One word before you go, please," said Madeline, standing up and speaking with emphasis. "After what you said just now, this is, of course, our last interview of this kind. When we meet again—and I think it would be gentlemanly in you to go and live somewhere else—you are Mr. Marsh, and I, if you please, am Miss Denyer."

      "I will bear it in mind."

      "Thank you." He still lingered near the door. "Be good enough to leave me."

      He

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