If it had not been rather amiable, it would have been absurdly droll. His wife at once withdrew her touch; but it was plain she had to exert some force. Thereupon the young man coloured and looked for a moment beautiful. Léon and Elvira both observed the byplay, and a shock passed from one to the other; for they were inveterate match-makers, especially between those who were already married. “I beg your pardon,” said Léon suddenly. “I see no use in pretending. Before we came in here we heard sounds indicating—if I may so express myself—an imperfect harmony.” “Sir—” began the man. But the woman was beforehand. “It is quite true,” she said. “I see no cause to be ashamed. If my husband is mad I shall at least do my utmost to prevent the consequences. Picture to yourself, Monsieur and Madame,” she went on, for she passed Stubbs over, “that this wretched person—a dauber, an incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter—receives this morning an admirable offer from an uncle—an uncle of my own, my mother’s brother, and tenderly beloved—of a clerkship with nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and that he—picture to yourself!—he refuses it! Why? For the sake of Art, he says. Look at his art, I say—look at it! Is it fit to be seen? Ask him—is it fit to be sold? And it is for this, Monsieur and Madame, that he condemns me to the most deplorable existence, without luxuries, without comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. O non!” she cried, “non—je ne me tairai pas—c’est plus fort que moi! I take these gentlemen and this lady for judges—is this kind? is it decent? is it manly? Do I not deserve better at his hands after having married him and”—(a visible hitch)—“done everything in the world to please him.” I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed company at a table; every one looked like a fool; and the husband like the biggest. “The art of Monsieur, however,” said Elvira, breaking the silence, “is not wanting in distinction.” “It has this distinction,” said the wife, “that nobody will buy it.” “I should have supposed a clerkship—” began Stubbs. “Art is Art,” swept in Léon. “I salute Art. It is the beautiful, the divine; it is the spirit of the world, and the pride of life. But—” And the actor paused. “A clerkship—” began Stubbs. “I’ll tell you what it is,” said the painter. “I am an artist, and as this gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course, if my wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition all day long, I prefer to go and drown myself out of hand.” “Go!” said his wife. “I should like to see you!” “I was going to say,” resumed Stubbs, “that a fellow may be a clerk and paint almost as much as he likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makes capital water-colour sketches; he even sold one for seven-and-six.”