“Isn’t she a dear old lady?” said Lavender one night to Ingram. “Look here! A check, received this morning, for two hundred pounds, for plate and glass.” Ingram looked at the bit of pale green paper: “I wish you had earned the money yourself, or done without the plate until you could buy it with your own money.” “Oh, confound it, Ingram! you carry your puritanical theories too far. Doubtless I shall earn my own living by and by. Give me time.” “It is now nearly a year since you thought of marrying Sheila Mackenzie, and you have not done a stroke of work yet.” “I beg your pardon. I have worked a good deal of late, as you will see when you come up to my rooms.” “Have you sold a single picture since last summer?” “I cannot make people buy my pictures if they don’t choose to do so.” “Have you made any effort to get them sold, or to come to any arrangement with any of the dealers?” “I have been too busy of late--looking after this house, you know,” said Lavender with an air of apology. “You were not too busy to paint a fan for Mrs. Lorraine, that people say must have occupied you for months.” Lavender laughed: “Do you know, Ingram, I think you are jealous of Mrs. Lorraine, on account of Sheila? Come, you shall go and see her.” “No, thank you.” “Are you afraid of your Puritan principles giving way?” “I am afraid that you are a very foolish boy,” said the other, with a good-humored shrug of resignation; “but I hope to see you mend when you marry.” “Ah, then you _will_ see a difference!” said Lavender, seriously; and so the dispute ended.