"Virginias, especially," said Philip, in parenthesis.
"Oh, that's another thing," exclaimed Dora almost indignantly; "you work, you turn out dramatic literature, for what it brings you in; own it at once—to make money! That is modern art, the art of making ten thousand a year. Some are writers, some are green-grocers; you put them all in the same category. Under these conditions, I do not see why Philip should not accept offers to paint advertisements for manufacturers of soaps and hair restorers."
"But, my dear friend," said Lorimer, "some of our greatest academicians have accepted such commissions with the most satisfactory results."
"Oh, hold your tongue, you are incorrigible!" said Dora, laughing.
Philip saw that it was time to put a stop to the conversation that threatened to get too heated, and proposed a smoke in the studio. Dora did not go with them; she made a solemn bow to Lorimer; and all three burst out laughing and separated the best of friends.
Philip and Lorimer lit their cigars, the latter without taking his eyes off the portrait of Dora, which he thought a splendid likeness and perfect in colouring and modelling.
"Ah, my dear friend, what a wife you have! What a companion for an artist! Upon my word, if I were married to such a woman, I believe I could write masterpieces."
Philip hardly heeded him. He paced up and down the studio, looking at the clock, then at the door, and starting at every sound he heard in the street.
"I should like to gain the world, to lay it at the feet of this woman," said he, standing before the portrait a moment. Philip felt more and more agitated. Lorimer looked at him fixedly.
"Why, old fellow, what on earth is the matter with you?"