"Shall I?" exclaimed Philip, his eyes shining with joy--"shall I be rich? My dear de Lussac, I am quite satisfied with my lot. I earn more than I want. But my wife, my Dora--I want to be rich for her sake. She was brought up surrounded with every luxury. Six years ago, she left the house of a wealthy and generous father to share the life of a struggling artist. She never once complained, but has been happy and has made me the happiest of men. She has sat constantly by my easel, inspiring my brush by her sweet presence, and encouraging me by her constant and discriminating praise. To better appreciate my work, she has set to work herself, and has had two pictures hung at the Royal Academy, which have been splendidly noticed. How she has helped me! Sometimes she would come and put her arms on my shoulders and say, 'Go on, Philip, you are on the road to fame.' What a wife! Yes," said he, with earnestness and warmth, "I want wealth, but God is my witness that it is for her that I aspire to riches." "Still in love, I see, _cher ami, hein_? It is possible then to be in love with one's wife after six years, six long years, of marriage." "Still in love! Why, I am only now beginning to love her as she deserves. Oh, that wealth may enable me to make her still happier!" "Amen," said de Lussac, and he turned again to the picture. "I think this portrait is delightful," said he; "you can never have done a better piece of work than this!" "Yes! I am fairly satisfied with it," said Philip; "it is like her, is it not? My wife with a bunch of pansies in her hand." "I don't see the pansies," remarked de Lussac. "No! I shall put them in presently. I shall finish the picture this afternoon." "I see," said de Lussac, "that Madame Grantham will have the bunch of pansies in her hand, and that she will look lovingly at them." "Yes, it is her favourite flower," replied Philip, "and mine too. There was a bed of pansies growing just under her window in that beautiful country house where I met her for the first time and where I courted her. She tended them herself, and called them 'her family.' Before entering the house, I would always pluck one and place it in my buttonhole. When it was faded, I gave it to her. It is utter nonsense, I know; but, after all, happiness is made up of little foolish trifles of that sort." "The Anglo-Saxons!" said de Lussac--"a practical and yet sentimental race." Philip went to a bureau and, opening a drawer, took out a little packet carefully tied up. "Here they are," said he, "her family." And he replaced the packet with great care. "This is charming, quite romantic," cried de Lussac, "perfectly idyllic! You know, you are a curious mixture, _mon cher ami_. Fancy your inventive genius turning to an instrument of war that will make widows of wives who perhaps once had such a 'family.'" "Oh, if I thought that!" exclaimed Philip. "You would beg the Commission to kindly return you your shell," suggested de Lussac, with a wink.