"Very well. In that case, struggle on. If you care for the kind of help you once said I could give you. I will try to give it still. Paint something that will sell, and go on with the other work at the same time." "Something that will sell!" he exclaimed, with disgust. "I can't, so there's an end of it." "And an end of your artist life, it seems to me. Unless you have any other plan?" "I wondered whether you could suggest any." Madeline shook her head slowly. They both brooded in a cheerless way. When the girl again spoke, it was in an undertone, as if not quite sure that she wished to be heard. "I had rather you were an artist than anything else, Clifford." Marsh decided not to hear. He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, and trod about the floor heavily. Madeline made another remark. "I suppose the kind of work that is proposed for you would leave you no time for art?" "Pooh! of course not. Who was ever Philistine and artist at the same time?" "Well, it's a bad job. I wish I could help you. I wish I had money. "If you had, _I_ shouldn't benefit by it," was the exasperated reply. "Will you please to do what you were going to do at first, and tell Barbara I wish to speak to her?" "Yes, I will." His temper grew worse. In his weakness he really had thought it likely that Madeline would suggest something hopeful. Men of his stamp constantly entertain unreasonable expectations, and are angry when the unreason is forced upon their consciousness. "One word before you go, please," said Madeline, standing up and speaking with emphasis. "After what you said just now, this is, of course, our last interview of this kind. When we meet again--and I think it would be gentlemanly in you to go and live somewhere else--you are Mr. Marsh, and I, if you please, am Miss Denyer." "I will bear it in mind." "Thank you." He still lingered near the door. "Be good enough to leave me." He made an effort and left the room. When the door had closed, Madeline heaved a deep sigh, and was for some minutes in a brown, if not a black, study. Then she shivered a little, sighed again, and again took up the volume she had been reading. It was Daudet's "Les Femmes d'Artistes." Not long after, all the Denyers were reunited in their sitting-room. Mrs. Denyer had brought up an open letter.