“I've acted squarely by you, sir,” Mr. Treffry went on, “I ask the same of you. I ask you to wait, and come like an honest man, when you can say, 'I see my way—here's this and that for her.' What makes this art you talk of different from any other call in life? It doesn't alter facts, or give you what other men have no right to expect. It doesn't put grit into you, or keep your hands clean, or prove that two and two make five.”
Harz answered bitterly:
“You know as much of art as I know of money. If we live a thousand years we shall never understand each other. I am doing what I feel is best for both of us.”
Mr. Treffry took hold of the painter's sleeve.
“I make you an offer,” he said. “Your word not to see or write to her for a year! Then, position or not, money or no money, if she'll have you, I'll make it right for you.”
“I could not take your money.”
A kind of despair seemed suddenly to seize on Mr. Nicholas Treffry. He rose, and stood towering over them.
“All my life—” he said; but something seemed to click deep down in his throat, and he sank back in his seat.
“Go!” whispered Christian, “go!” But Mr. Treffry found his voice again: “It's for the child to say. Well, Chris!”
Christian did not speak.