“Great heavens!  I ask you, have I left one stone unturned?  Have I not gone from publisher to publisher to sell those songs of my own composing—­those songs that you sing so well?  I have endeavored to get pupils.  What fresh efforts can I try?  What would you do, were you in my place?  Tell me, I beg you.”

And as Paul spoke, he grew more and more excited, while Rose still maintained her manner of exasperating coolness.

“I know not,” she replied, after a brief pause; “but if I were a man, I do not think I would permit the woman, for whom I pretended that I had the most sincere affection, to be in want of the actual necessities of life.  I would strain every effort to obtain them.”

“I have no trade; I am no mechanic,” broke in Paul passionately.

“Then I would learn one.  Pray how much does a man earn who climbs the ladder with a bricklayer’s hod upon his shoulders?  It may be hard work, I know, but surely the business is not difficult to learn.  You have, or say you have, great musical talents.  I say nothing about them; but had I any vocal powers and if there was not a morsel to eat in the house, I would go and sing in the taverns or even in the public streets, and would earn money, and care little for the means by which I made it.”

“When you say those things, you seem to forget that I am an honest man.”

“One would really suppose that I had suggested some questionable act to you.  Your reply, Paul, plainly proves to me that you are one of those who, for want of determination, fall, helpless, by the wayside in the journey of life.  They flaunt their rags and tatters in the eyes of the world, and with saddened hearts and empty stomachs utter the boast, ‘I am an honest man.’  Do you think that, in order to be rich, you must perforce be a rogue?  This is simple imbecility.”

She uttered this tirade in clear and vibrant accents, and her eyes gleamed with the fire of savage resolution.  Her nature was one of those cruel and energetic ones, which lead a woman to hurl a man from the brink of the abyss to which she had conducted him, and to forget him before he has ever reached the bottom.

This torrent of sarcasm brought out Paul’s real nature.  His face flushed, and rage began to gain the mastery over him.  “Can you not work?” he asked.  “Why do you not do something instead of talking so much?”

“That is not at all the same thing,” answered she coolly.  “I was not made for work.”

Paul made a threatening gesture.  “You wretch!” exclaimed he.

“You are wrong,” she replied.  “I am not a wretch; I am simply hungry.”