But when she turned the corner of Pelham Street, and saw the cheery light streaming from the windows both within and above the verandah, her feet felt lighter. Ten minutes later, presiding over the little tea-table drawn up beside her husband’s couch, Lucy Challoner was again her dauntless self, prepared to extract its uttermost from every pleasant possibility. She brought out her purse with a dramatic air of mystery. “Do you see this little article, Charlie,” she said. “Look at it!” “Why, it’s the old purse I gave you during our honeymoon,” he answered in his invalid’s whisper. “Poor little girl, if I had been able to put more in it, it would have been worn out by this time!” “Oh, never mind that nonsense,” said she. “This purse held five shillings when I went out this afternoon. What do you think it holds now?” “Not more than four-and-sixpence I hope,” he replied, “for you have been out so long, that I trust you have treated yourself at least to a sixpenny bus fare.” “Sir, do not trifle,” she said demurely. “Guess again. I brought home more, not less. You give it up? Well, this purse now contains three pounds eight shillings. I did not spend a penny, and Messrs. Mapp have sold my little sketch of the old Surrey mill and have handed me three guineas for it.” “And a very good bargain somebody got,” remarked Charlie, who was straightway called “an ungrateful man.” “I should like to keep all your pictures to myself,” he said. “That is selfish,” she answered, with quaint affectation of dogmatism. “Don’t you know that the true purpose of a work of art is to be seen and not merely possessed?” Charlie laughed. “I would not grudge it to a gallery,” he said. “But if some fellow has got to possess it, I’d rather I was that fellow.” “But that wasn’t in our bond,” persisted his wife. “Don’t you remember that when I gave up teaching to marry you, sir, I bargained that I might sell any sketch I did, provided that I never sketched when I ought to be doing my duty to you?” “Nevertheless you forgot to put in a clause that I was not to buy them,” laughed Charlie. “I suppose my money is as good as any other body’s—always provided I have any,” he added, with a little sigh. “You are so mercenary!” cried Lucy. “Do you think I cared only for the money—though I did want to be able to give you real presents, sometimes. No, sir! Let me tell you I care also for my art. I wanted it to gain criticism—I desired it to pass tests.” “A gentle hint that my art opinions are not worth much!” said Charlie archly. “A gentle hint that you have such foolish opinions about a certain woman, that, provided five pound notes were in plenty, you would give her one for an outlined cube set on four sticks, and inscribed with the legend ‘This is a pig!’” said Lucy.