“If I remember rightly, you had some sort of idea that the fact of our engagement might help you.  That didn’t seem to me impossible.  It is a very different thing from marriage on nothing a year.”

“You have no faith in me; you never had.  And how could you believe in what you don’t understand?  I see now what I have been forced to suspect—­that your character is just as practical as that of other women.  Your talk of art is nothing more than talk.  You think, in truth, of pounds, shillings and pence.”

“I think of them a good deal,” said Madeline, “and I should be an idiot if I didn’t.  What is art if the artist has nothing to live on?  Pray, what are you going to do henceforth?  Shall you scorn the mention of pounds, shillings and pence?  Come to see me when you have had no dinner to-day, and are feeling very uncertain about breakfast in the morning, and I will say, ’Pooh! your talk about art was after all nothing but talk; you are a sham!’”

Marsh’s leg began to ache.  He rose and moved about the room.  Madeline at length turned her eyes to him; he was brooding genuinely, and not for effect.  Her glance discerned this.

“Well, and what are you going to do, ill fact?” she asked.

“I’m hanged if I know, Mad; and there’s the truth.”

He turned and regarded her with wide eyes, seriously perceptive of a blank horizon.

“I’ve asked him to let me have half the money, but he refuses even that.  His object is, of course, to compel me into the life of a Philistine.  I believe the fellow thinks it’s kindness; I know my mother does.  She, of course, has as little faith in me as you have.”

Madeline did not resent this.  She regarded the floor for a minute, and, without raising her eyes, said: 

“Come here, Clifford.”

He approached.  Still without raising her eyes, she again spoke.

“Do you believe in yourself?”

The words were impressive.  Marsh gave a start, uttered an impatient sound, and half turned away.

“Do you believe in yourself, Clifford?”

“Of course I do!” came from him blusterously.

“Very well.  In that case, struggle on.  If you care for the kind of help you once said I could give you.  I will try to give it still.  Paint something that will sell, and go on with the other work at the same time.”

“Something that will sell!” he exclaimed, with disgust.  “I can’t, so there’s an end of it.”

“And an end of your artist life, it seems to me.  Unless you have any other plan?”

“I wondered whether you could suggest any.”

Madeline shook her head slowly.  They both brooded in a cheerless way.  When the girl again spoke, it was in an undertone, as if not quite sure that she wished to be heard.

“I had rather you were an artist than anything else, Clifford.”

Marsh decided not to hear.  He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, and trod about the floor heavily.  Madeline made another remark.