"I told you to prepare yourself for bad news."
"That's a very annoying habit of yours. I hate to be kept in suspense in that way. Why can't you always say at once what you mean? Father does the same thing constantly in his letters. I'm sure we've quite enough anxiety from him; I don't see why you should increase it."
Without otherwise moving, he put his arm about her.
"What is it, Clifford? Tell me, and be quick."
"It's soon told, Mad. My step-father informs me that he will continue the usual allowance until my twenty-sixth birthday—eighteenth of February next, you know—and no longer than that. After then, I must look out for myself."
Madeline wrinkled her brows.
"What's the reason?" she asked, after a pause.
"The old trouble. He says I've had quite long enough to make my way as an artist, if I'm going to make it at all. In his opinion, I am simply wasting my time and his money. No cash results; that is to say, no success. Of course, his view."
The girl kept silence. Marsh shifted his position slightly, so as to get a view of her face.
"Somebody else's too, I'm half afraid," he murmured dubiously.