“Oh, Iris—­oh!  Do you really think me conceited?”

“I did not say that.  I only said that you were satisfied with yourself.  That, I understand now, was clear, from many little natural touches in your letters.”

“What else did you learn?”

“Oh, a great deal—­much more than I can tell you.  I knew that you go into society, and I learned from you what society means; and though you tried to be sarcastic, I understood easily that you liked social pleasure.”

“Was I sarcastic?”

“Was it not sarcastic to tell me how the fine ladies, who affect so much enthusiasm for art, go to see the galleries on the private-view day, and are never seen in them again?  Was it not sarcastic—­”

“Spare me, Iris.  I will never do it again.  And knowing so much, do you not desire to know more?”

“No, Arnold.  I am not interested in anything else.”

“But my position, my profession, my people—­are you not curious to know them?”

“No.  They are not you.  They are accidents of yourself.”

“Philosopher!  But you must know more about me.  I told you I was an artist.  But you have never inquired whether I was a great artist or a little one.”

“You are still a little artist,” she said.  “I know that, without being told.  But perhaps you may become great when you learn to work seriously.”

“I have been lazy,” he replied with something like a blush, “but that is all over now.  I am going to work.  I will give up society.  I will take my profession seriously, if only you will encourage me.”

Did he mean what he said?  When he came away he used at this period to ask himself that question, and was astonished at the length he had gone.  With any other girl in the world, he would have been taken at his word, and either encouraged to go on, or snubbed on the spot.  But Iris received these advances as if they were a confession of weakness.

“Why do you want me to encourage you?” she asked.  “I know nothing about Art.  Can’t you encourage yourself, Arnold?”

“Iris, I must tell you something more about myself.  Will you listen for a moment?  Well, I am the son of a clergyman who now holds a colonial appointment.  I have got the usual number of brothers and sisters, who are doing the usual things.  I will not bore you with details about them.”

“No,” said Iris, “please do not.”

“I am the adopted son, or ward, or whatever you please, of a certain cousin.  She is a single lady with a great income, which she promises to bequeath to me in the future.  In the meantime, I am to have whatever I want.  Do you understand the position, Iris?”

“Yes, I think so.  It is interesting, because it shows why you will never be a great artist.  But it is very sad.”

“A man may rise above his conditions, Iris,” said Arnold meekly.

“No,” she went on; “it is only the poor men who do anything good.  Lala Roy says so.”