'There are some nice cakes. I'll go and get some; we'll share them.' 'No, no, I really am not hungry, much obliged.' 'Oh, do let me go and get some cakes, it'll be such fun, and so much nicer than sitting with a lot of women in that little room.' They shared their cakes, walking up and down the great stone passages, and this was the beginning of their intimacy. On the following week she wrote to say what train she was coming up by; he met her at the station, and they went together to the National Gallery. But their way led through St. James' Park; they lingered there, and, as the season advanced, their lingerings in the park grew longer and longer. 'What a pretty park this is. It always seems to me like a lady's boudoir, or what I imagine a lady's boudoir must be like.' 'Have you never seen a lady's boudoir?' 'No; I don't think I have. I've never been in what you call society. I had to make my living ever since I was sixteen. My father was a small tradesman in Brixton. When I was sixteen I had to make my own living. I used to draw in the illustrated papers. I began by making two pounds a week. Then, as I got on, I used to live as much as possible in the country. You can't paint landscapes in London.' 'You must have had a hard time.' 'I suppose I had. It was all right as long as I kept to my newspaper work. But I was ambitious, and wanted to paint in oils; but I never had a hundred pounds in front of me. I could only get away for a fortnight or a month at a time. Then, as things got better, I had to help my family. My father died, and I had to look after my mother.' Mildred raised her eyes and looked at him affectionately. 'I think I could have done something if I had had a fair chance.' 'Done something? But you have done something. Have you forgotten what the _Spectator_ said of your farmyard?' 'That's nothing. If I hadn't to think of getting my living I could do better than that. Oil painting is the easiest material of all until you come to a certain point; after that point, when you begin to think of quality and transparency, it is most difficult.' They were standing on the bridge. The water below them was full of ducks. The birds balanced themselves like little boats on the waves, and Mildred thought of her five hundred a year and the pleasure it would be to help Ralph to paint the pictures he wanted to paint. She imagined him a great artist; his success would be her doing. At that same moment he was thinking that there never had been any pleasure in his life; and Mildred--her hat, her expensive dress, her sunshade-- seemed in such bitter contrast to himself, to his own life, that he could not hide a natural irritation. 'Your life has been all pleasure,' he said, glancing at her disdainfully. 'No, indeed, it has not. My life has been miserable enough. We are rich, it is true, but our riches have never brought me happiness. The best time I've had has been since I met you.' 'Is that true? I wonder if that's true.'