To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; each hopefully interrogated the countenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artist herself!—but indeed there must be something permanently mercantile in the female nature. The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; not otherwise might two philosophers salute, as at the end of a laborious life each recognised that he was still a mystery to his disciples. Léon arose. “Art is Art,” he repeated sadly. “It is not water-colour sketches, nor practising on a piano. It is a life to be lived.” “And in the meantime people starve!” observed the woman of the house. “If that’s a life, it is not one for me.” “I’ll tell you what,” burst forth Léon; “you, Madame, go into another room and talk it over with my wife; and I’ll stay here and talk it over with your husband. It may come to nothing, but let’s try.” “I am very willing,” replied the young woman; and she proceeded to light a candle. “This way if you please.” And she led Elvira upstairs into a bedroom. “The fact is,” said she, sitting down, “that my husband cannot paint.” “No more can mine act,” replied Elvira. “I should have thought he could,” returned the other; “he seems clever.” “He is so, and the best of men besides,” said Elvira; “but he cannot act.” “At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he can at least sing.” “You mistake Léon,” returned his wife warmly. “He does not even pretend to sing; he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living. And, believe me, neither of the men are humbugs. They are people with a mission—which they cannot carry out.” “Humbug or not,” replied the other, “you came very near passing the night in the fields; and, for my part, I live in terror of starvation. I should think it was a man’s mission to think twice about his wife. But it appears not. Nothing is their mission but to play the fool. Oh!” she broke out, “is it not something dreary to think of that man of mine? If he could only do it, who would care? But no—not he—no more than I can!” “Have you any children?” asked Elvira. “No; but then I may.” “Children change so much,” said Elvira, with a sigh. And just then from the room below there flew up a sudden snapping chord on the guitar; one followed after another; then the voice of Léon joined in; and there was an air being played and sung that stopped the speech of the two women. The wife of the painter stood like a person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her eyes, could see all manner of beautiful memories and kind thoughts that were passing in and out of her soul with every note; it was a piece of her youth that went before her; a green French plain, the smell of apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, and the words and presence of love. “Léon has hit the nail,” thought Elvira to herself. “I wonder how.”