'Oh, yes, I do! You paint lovely pictures, which you sell: you write admirable stories and excellent verses—at least, I suppose they are admirable and excellent. You put them into a paper which is your own——'
'Yes—yes. But all these things leave me as poor as I was four years ago.'
He got up and stood before the fire, looking into it. Then he walked across to the window and gazed into the street. Then he returned and looked into the fire again. This restlessness may be a sign that something is on a man's mind.
'Zoe,' he said at length, without looking at her, 'your impatience makes you unjust. You do not understand. Things have come to a crisis.'
'What kind of a crisis?'
'A financial crisis. I must have money.'
'Then go and make it. Paint more pictures: write more poetry. Make money, as other men do. It is very noble and grand to pretend that you only work when you please; but it isn't business, and it isn't true.'
'Again—you do not understand. I must have money in a short time, or else——'
'Else—what may happen, Alec?' She leaned forward, losing her murmuring manner for the first time.
'I may—I must—become bankrupt. That to me signifies social ruin.'