For some time past Dora had noticed that Philip had no longer the same lively interest in his painting, but she had been very careful not to speak to him about it. Dora was the ideal artist's wife, not only because she understood her husband's art, but also because she was keenly alive to the conditions under which works of art are produced. If she had been the wife of Bernard de Palissy, she herself would have broken up the furniture of her home to keep alive the furnace fire. Blessed with a calm, even temperament herself, she knew that the artistic nature is sensitive, susceptible, irritable even, and that a veritable diplomacy has to be exercised daily and hourly, if one would so live with an artist as to cheer him in his moments of discouragement, to stimulate him, to give him constantly the discreet and intelligent praise he needs, when it seems to him that his imagination and his powers are forsaking him, and that he is no longer doing his best work. An artist is a piece of machinery that must be wound up every day. There is scarce an artist worthy of the name who does not think he is used up each time that he terminates a new work, and there is not a painter who, when he shows a new picture for the first time, does not watch the scrutinising gaze of the critic, much as a mother watches with anxious eye the expression of the doctor who is going to pronounce himself upon the subject of her sick child. An artist is a child, who must be constantly petted and applauded. Dora knew all that, and, on this subject, she had nothing to reproach herself with; on the contrary, it was to her that her husband owed his growing celebrity--she had made him what he was. She did not take any credit for this, she had never reminded him of it, never a hint on the subject had passed her lips. A woman like Dora leaves a husband to recognise these things for himself, but never speaks of them. Dora had not the courage to ask Philip why he painted with less ardour, but she longed to say to him, "You promised me that you would finish the portrait to-day; you tell me that it is only a matter of two or three hours' work; but I am sure that it will take seven or eight hours to finish it ... why don't you set about it?" And her imagination fell to inventing all sorts of explanations, each more fantastic and improbable than the other. The last words of Monsieur de Lussac came back to her memory, "_Pansies for thought--Love lies bleeding._" What connection would there be between a pansy and a crushed love? No one had ever loved her well enough to break his heart about her, except Philip, and he had married her. But he? Had there been a romance in his life, before she had known him? He had never spoken of anything of the kind. "After all," she said to herself, "the best of men have some experience of that kind in their early life, which they do not talk about. Ah, well! what matters it? Philip has filled my life with happiness."