This conviction of hers, that his publishers had paid a few pounds to the leading London papers to praise him in their columns, was not to be shaken. Cynthia did not repeat it to him, and Kent did not divine it, but Miss Wix--who had consented to remain at The Hawthorns--appeared quite a lovable person to him now in comparison with his wife's mother. Of intention Louisa did not snub him, the stock-jobber was not rude to him deliberately, but both felt that their girl had done badly indeed for herself, and their very tones in addressing him were new and resentful. In secret they were passionately mortified on another score. Their prodigy, the coming bass, had once more failed to secure a debut, and at last there was nothing for it but to admit that the thought of a musical career must be abandoned. The circumstances surrounding this final failure were veiled in mystery, even from Cynthia, but the fact was sufficiently damning in itself. The wily Pincocca was paid fees no longer, and Cæsar took a trip to Berlin with a company-promoter whom his father knew, and who did not speak German, while his mother invented an explanation. It was trying for the Walfords, both their swans turning out to be ganders at the same time, and that one of them had been acquired, not hatched, was more than they could forgive themselves, or him. There were occasions soon when Kent was more than slighted, when no disguise was made at all. One day in July, Walford said to him: "I tell you what it is, Humphrey, this can't go on! You'll have to give your profession up and look for a berth, my boy. How's your account now?" "Pretty low," confessed his son-in-law, feeling like a lad rebuked for a misdemeanour. Walford looked at him indignantly. "Ha!" he said. "It's a nice position, 'pon my word! And no news, I suppose--nothing fresh?". "Nothing, sir." "You'll have to chuck it all. You'll have to chuck this folly of yours, and put your shoulder to the wheel and work." "I thought I did work," said Kent doggedly. "Do you think literature is a game?" "I think it's an infernal rotten game--yes!" "Ah, well, there," said Kent, "many literary men have agreed with you." "You'll have to put your mind to something serious. If you only earn thirty bob a week, it's more than your novels bring you in. What your wife and child will do, God knows--have to come to us, I suppose. A fine thing for a girl married eighteen months!" "She hasn't arrived at it yet," answered Kent, very pale, "and I don't fancy she will. Many thanks for the invitation." Walford stopped short--they had met in the High Road--and cocked his head, his legs apart. "Will you take a berth in the City for a couple of quid, if I can get you one?" he demanded sharply. "No," said Kent, "I'll be damned if I will! I'll stick to my pen, whatever happens, and I'll stick to my wife and child, too!"