The transition from that attitude to ownership was amazingly rapid. Then nothing remained but to wait for the picture. She had dreaded a mistake, a blundering discord, but now with the thing hung she could see her quick eye had not betrayed her. It was a mass of reds, browns, purples, and vivid greens and greys; an effect of roof and brick house facing upon a Dutch canal, and it lit up the room and was echoed and reflected by all the rest of her courageous colour scheme, like a coal-fire amidst mahogany and metal. It justified itself to her completely, and she faced her husband with a certain confidence. "Hullo!" he cried. "A new picture," she said. "What do you think of it?" "What is it?" "A town or something--never mind. Look at the colour. It heartens everything." Trafford looked at the painting with a reluctant admiration. "It's brilliant--and impudent. He's an artist--whoever he is. He hits the thing. But--I say--how did you get it?" "I bought it." "Bought it! Good Lord! How much?" "Oh! ten guineas," said Marjorie, with an affectation of ease; "it will be worth thirty in ten years' time." Trafford's reply was to repeat: "Ten guineas!" Their eyes met, and there was singularly little tenderness in their eyes. "It was priced at thirteen," said Marjorie, ending a pause, and with a sinking heart. Trafford had left her side. He walked to the window and sat down in a chair. "I think this is too much," he said, and his voice had disagreeable notes in it she had never heard before. "I have just been earning two guineas at Croydon, of all places, administering comminuted science to fools--and here I find--this exploit! Ten guineas' worth of picture. To say we can't afford it is just to waste a mild expression. It's--mad extravagance. It's waste of money--it's--oh!--monstrous disloyalty. Disloyalty!" He stared resentful at the cheerful, unhesitating daubs of the picture for a moment. Its affected carelessness goaded him to fresh words. He spoke in a tone of absolute hostility. "I think this winds me up to something," he said. "You'll have to give up your cheque-book, Marjorie." "Give up my cheque-book!" He looked up at her and nodded. There was a warm flush in her cheeks, her lips panted apart, and tears of disappointment and vexation were shining beautifully in her eyes. She mingled the quality of an indignant woman with the distress and unreasonable resentment of a child. "Because I've bought this picture?" "Can we go on like this?" he asked, and felt how miserably he had bungled in opening this question that had been in his mind so long. "But it's _beautiful!_" she said.