"Ha! I see!" he said, scoffingly. "The way you get your drawings is to buy prints, and stick them on mill-boards. Yes, and then you smear them over with gelatine and colour them with this wretched paint. How is it you are not found out?" he continued, looking sharply at her, and then turning to examine the edges of one of the pictures. "Ha! I see! Sandpaper! So you rub the edges smooth with that! You little cheat! You defraud your purchasers! I really--you must give up this work at once. Do you hear? You must give it up forthwith--immediately!"
"I cannot, Norman!"
"Why not?"
"It pays so well. Sometimes we get eight or nine pounds a week by it."
"Pays well! Eight or nine pounds a week!" There was intense scorn in the artist's tones. "So, for money--mere money--you will sell your soul!"
"Nonsense! We must live. I pay for food--your food and mine--and our clothes, yes, and rent, gas, coal, and the servant's wages, with this money."
He stared at her. "I gave you money for those things," he said. "I'm sure I gave you ten pounds not so very long since."
"Last Christmas! Nearly twelve months ago! You are so impracticable, Norman. That ten pounds was used in a few days, to pay bills that were owing."
"You never asked me for more."
"Could you have given it me if I had?"