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.”