"I am willing to labour, willing to face anything in life. But, Mary--the confession of failure--you don't see how deep, how mad the pride is in me." "You have nothing to confess. The whole world knows you are a failure. They talk about it openly. They spare me as much as possible, but I can't shut my ears." It was a staggering blow. "They despise me!" he breathed. Her lips hesitated, clenched together, the corners convulsed with pain. "They despise you!" He found his defence. "Because I have not succeeded commercially." His voice was full of scorn. "It matters little that these gross Philistines misjudge me. They will yet regret it. I shall yet show them that I am not so self-deceived as they imagine. I am an artist--art was born in my blood, art is my whole existence. I shall stick to it till I fall dead. I ask you, Mary, to believe in me a little longer." "Heaven knows I have never wavered in my belief a moment. But it is not my belief that can save you. You have made a brave attempt, but you have been defeated. I am only facing the simple facts. The present position seems to me a hopeless one to start from. You have no means behind you now, so what is there before you save to go on in the same miserable way as you have lived the last year or two? I see no possibility of anything but repetition of the same unhappy experience--the world is not going to step out of its way for your sake. And remember it has already made up its mind about you." "Then I have lost your sympathy!" he exclaimed. He stared gloomily into the fire. She saw now that the morbid sensibility of the man who had failed would never face clear, cold reason, however gently administered. "No, dear; you have not lost my sympathy. Please don't think that," she pleaded. "Don't you see I want to be a real friend to you; don't you see that you are more to me than your art?" "I must fight it out," he insisted. "To-morrow I am starting a fresh lot of things--to sell! I have always stood out for the big accomplishment, but now I offer my labour in the market. Pretty designs, prettily coloured--Cupids and pearly clouds and wreaths of flowers. The dealers will take them. You will see, Mary, I shall manage to pull through yet." She shook her head incredulously. "Better to give it up altogether before it is too late." "You can't mean it," he exclaimed. "You have stood by me so long that I can't believe you are going to turn against me." "I repeat that I care for you more than for your art, and I cannot see you sacrificed. No, I have not turned against you. I have been against you all this long, unhappy time. To-day I am your friend for the first time. Listen, darling. When I got your letter yesterday, I knew that things were as bad as ever, that you were at your wits' ends again for money."