'Patience, Roland. In his despair the artist gave way. He consented. For three years and more he received the wages of--of sin. But his food was like ashes in his mouth, and his front was stamped--yes, stamped--by the curse of those who sin against their own soul.' 'Armorel----' But she went on, ruthless. 'The pictures were very good: they were exhibited, praised, and sold. And the man grew quickly in reputation. But he wasn't satisfied. He thought that as it was so easy to be a painter, it would be equally easy to become a poet. All the Arts are allied: many painters have been also poets. He had never written a single line of poetry. I do not know that he had ever read any. He found a girl who was struggling, working, and hoping.' Effie started and turned roseate red. 'He took her poems--bought them--and, on the pretence of having improved them and so made them his own, he published them in his own name. They were pretty, bright verses, and presently people began to look for them and to like them. So he got a double reputation. But the poor girl remained unknown. At first she was so pleased at seeing her verses in print--it looked so much like success--that she hardly minded seeing his name at the end. But presently he brought out a little volume of them with his name on the title-page, and then a second volume--also with his name----' 'The scoundrel!' cried Roland. 'He cribbed his poetry too?' Effie bowed her face, ashamed. 'And then the girl grew unhappy. For she perceived that she was in a bondage from which there was no escape except by sacrificing the money which he gave her, and that was necessary for her brother's sake. So she became very unhappy.' 'Very unhappy,' echoed Effie. Both painter and poet stood confused and ashamed. 'Then this clever man--the cleverest man in London--began to go about in society a good deal, because he was so great a genius. There he met a lady who was full of stories.' 'Oh!' said Roland. 'Is there nothing in him at all?' 'Nothing at all. There is really nothing at all. This man persuaded the lady to write down these stories, which were all based on old family scandals and episodes unknown or forgotten by the world. They form a most charming series of stories. I believe they are written in a most sparkling style--full of wit and life. Well, he did not put his name to them, but he allowed the whole world to believe that they were his own.' 'Good Heavens!' cried Roland. 'And still he was not satisfied. He found a young dramatist who had written a most charming play. He tried to persuade the poor lad that his play was worthless, and he offered to take it himself, alter it--but there needed no alteration--and convert it into a play that could be acted. He would give fifty pounds for the play, but it was to be his own.' 'Yes,' said Effie, savagely. 'He made that offer, but he will not get the play.'