“That is selfish,” she answered, with quaint affectation of dogmatism. “Don’t you know that the true purpose of a work of art is to be seen and not merely possessed?”
Charlie laughed. “I would not grudge it to a gallery,” he said. “But if some fellow has got to possess it, I’d rather I was that fellow.”
“But that wasn’t in our bond,” persisted his wife. “Don’t you remember that when I gave up teaching to marry you, sir, I bargained that I might sell any sketch I did, provided that I never sketched when I ought to be doing my duty to you?”
“Nevertheless you forgot to put in a clause that I was not to buy them,” laughed Charlie. “I suppose my money is as good as any other body’s—always provided I have any,” he added, with a little sigh.
“You are so mercenary!” cried Lucy. “Do you think I cared only for the money—though I did want to be able to give you real presents, sometimes. No, sir! Let me tell you I care also for my art. I wanted it to gain criticism—I desired it to pass tests.”
“A gentle hint that my art opinions are not worth much!” said Charlie archly.
“A gentle hint that you have such foolish opinions about a certain woman, that, provided five pound notes were in plenty, you would give her one for an outlined cube set on four sticks, and inscribed with the legend ‘This is a pig!’” said Lucy.
“But now, Charlie,” she went on, with a sudden change of tone from the assumed merriment in which they had both innocently disguised the anxieties lying in both breasts, “I have got a piece of news for you—very important, good news. You are to go for a long sea voyage. It is all arranged. Dr. Ivery says so.”
There was a moment’s pause.