She looked up eagerly.

’That’s what I say.  You’d never be able to think about little things—­you’d have to be painting always—­and going about—­and—­’

He bit his lip.

‘Why, I could manage for myself—­for a bit,’ he said, with a laugh.  ’I’m not such an idiot as all that.  Old Morrison’s lent me a hundred pounds, Phoebe!’

He enjoyed her amazement.

‘A hundred pounds!’ she repeated, faintly.  ’And however are we going to repay all that?’

He drew her back to him triumphantly.

’Why, you silly child, I’m going to earn it, of course—­and a deal more.  Don’t you hinder me, Phoebe! and I shall be a rich man before we can look round, and you’ll be a lady—­with a big house—­and your carriage, perhaps!’

He kissed her vehemently, as though to coerce her into agreeing with him.

But she released herself.

‘You and I’ll never be rich.  We don’t know how.’

‘Speak for yourself, please.’  He stretched out his right hand, laughing.  ’Look at that hand.  If it gets a fair chance it’s got money in it—­and fame—­and happiness for us both! Don’t you believe in me, Phoebe?  Don’t you believe I shall make a painter?’

He spoke with an imperious harshness, repeating his query.  It was evident, curiously evident, that he cared for her opinion.

‘Of course I believe in you,’ she said, her chest heaving.  ‘It’s—­it’s—­other things.’

Then, coming to him again, she flung her arms piteously round him.  ’Oh, John, John—­for a year past—­and more—­you’ve been sorry you married me!’

‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ he cried, half in wrath, half astonished.  ‘What’s come to you, Phoebe?’

‘Oh!  I know,’ she said, withdrawing herself and speaking in a low current of speech.  ’You were very fond of me when we married—­and—­and I dare say you’re fond of me now—­but it’s different.  You were a boy then—­and you thought you’d get drawing-lessons in Kendal, and perhaps a place at a school—­and you didn’t seem to want anything more.  And now you’re so ambitious—­so ambitious, John—­I’—­she turned her head away—­’I sometimes feel when I’m with you—­I can’t breathe—­it’s just burning you away—­and me too.  You’ve found out what you can do—­and people tell you you’re so clever—­and then you think you’ve thrown yourself away—­and that I’m a clog on you.  John’—­she approached him suddenly, panting—­’John, do you mean that baby and I are to stay all the winter alone in that cottage?’ She motioned towards it.

He protested that he had elaborately thought out all that she must do.  She must go to her father at Keswick for the summer and possibly for the winter, till he had got a footing.  He would come up to see her as often as work and funds would permit.  She must look after the child, make a little money perhaps by her beautiful embroidery.

‘I’ll not go to my father,’ she said, with energy.