"How is it about this painter, Marcia? Are you going to marry him?"
She looked fixedly, as she replied,—
"Why do you ask? You know I am going to marry him."
"Oh, it's settled, is it? You know, sister, you have had similar intentions before,—several times, in fact,—intentions that haven't come to much."
She did not answer further; a flush of anger came, then went, leaving her pale face with a rather sterner expression.
"While I was prosperous, I was not disposed to be mercenary; though I did think you were not worldly-wise. Now that I am destitute, you can see that to marry a man not worth a dollar, and with a precarious profession, is not what it would have been."
"Mr. Greenleaf earns a good income, doesn't he?"
"He hasn't sold a picture, except to friends whom I persuaded to buy."
"You have friends and influence still?"
"I don't know; a man's friends don't last long after his money is gone. Besides, nobody wants to buy now. Raphael himself couldn't sell a picture here till times improve. A painter is a pretty butterfly for fine weather; what is he to do with his flimsy wings in such a hurricane as this?"