"Well, my dear Dora," said Philip, "there are times at which I can scarcely keep my patience with you—you don't interest yourself in me as you used to do."
"Is it really you who dare speak to me in that way?" exclaimed Dora indignantly. "Is it you who accuse me of not being the same, you who consecrated your life to art and to my happiness, and who to-day think of nothing but making money, like the first City man in the street? There are times when I long to go and earn my own living with my brush. The only thing that holds me back is Eva—you too, perhaps, for I am certain that one of these days you will cry 'Help!' and I shall have to rescue you from drowning."
"You are ungrateful, Dora. It is for you that I work."
"For me? But can't you see I loathe the life I lead? For me? When the thirst for wealth gets hold of a man, he has always the same excuse—it is not for himself. It is even the eternal parrot-cry of the miser; if he holds fast to his money, it is for the children; and under this pretext he renders his wife, his children, and everyone around him as miserable as he is himself."
"Night and day," said Philip, "I have worked, and God is my witness that in working all my thoughts were for you. Now that I am almost at the goal, you turn against me—you refuse to give a smile to the man who can realise all my hopes."
"Ah, why do you choose that one?" said Dora, frowning.
"What a funny remark!" said Philip. "Just as if he was my choice."
Then, looking at Dora, who seemed agitated, he added—
"What do you mean?"
"I have been told that General Sabaroff is a libertine, a roué of the worst type, and you know what a detestation I have of such men."