Mrs. Sandford inwardly determined to return to her home, or at least to go elsewhere in the city, so as not to be a burden to her brother-in-law; but she remained silent.  Mr. Sandford balanced his knife, sliced his bread into figures, then hummed and beat a tattoo upon the table,—­sure indications of forgetfulness in one so scrupulous as he.  At length, with a bland voice, but a sharp, inquiring eye, he said,—­

“How is it about this painter, Marcia?  Are you going to marry him?”

She looked fixedly, as she replied,—­

“Why do you ask?  You know I am going to marry him.”

“Oh, it’s settled, is it?  You know, sister, you have had similar intentions before,—­several times, in fact,—­intentions that haven’t come to much.”

She did not answer further; a flush of anger came, then went, leaving her pale face with a rather sterner expression.

“While I was prosperous, I was not disposed to be mercenary; though I did think you were not worldly-wise.  Now that I am destitute, you can see that to marry a man not worth a dollar, and with a precarious profession, is not what it would have been.”

“Mr. Greenleaf earns a good income, doesn’t he?”

“He hasn’t sold a picture, except to friends whom I persuaded to buy.”

“You have friends and influence still?”

“I don’t know; a man’s friends don’t last long after his money is gone.  Besides, nobody wants to buy now.  Raphael himself couldn’t sell a picture here till times improve.  A painter is a pretty butterfly for fine weather; what is he to do with his flimsy wings in such a hurricane as this?”

“I think I understand you, Brother Henry.  You begin afar off; but I know what you are coming to.  You want to bring up that odious Denims again,—­a man whom I hate, and whom you yourself would show out of doors, like a vagrant, if it were not for his money!”

The effort exhausted her, and she breathed painfully.

“You think yourself quick.  I haven’t mentioned Denims.  In fact, you have treated him in such a way that I am quite sure he would never trouble himself to be even civil to you again.”

“I am glad of it,—­the fool!”

“Sister Marcia, I have borne much from your turbulent temper.  You are a spoiled child.  Fortune has let you have your own way hitherto; so much the worse for you.  But circumstances have changed.  I can no longer supply you as though you were a duchess.  In fact, I don’t know what may be before us.  I hope no actual want. [Another grip of the pocket-book.] But I advise you to consider whether it is for the interest of a dependent woman to go out of her way to thwart and insult me.”

“You would compel me, then, and threaten starvation as the alternative?”

“What odiously blunt language you use!”

“I only translated your roundabout phrases as I understood them.”

“You need not be violent.”