ashamed. If my husband is mad I shall at least do my utmost to prevent the consequences. Picture to yourself, Monsieur and Madame," she went on, for she passed Stubbs over, "that this wretched person—a dauber, an incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter—receives this morning an admirable offer from an uncle—an uncle of my own, my mother's brother, and tenderly beloved—of a clerkship with nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and that he—picture to yourself!—he refuses it! Why? For the sake of Art, he says. Look at his art, I say—look at it! Is it fit to be seen? Ask him—is it fit to be sold? And it is for this, Monsieur and Madame, that he condemns me to the most deplorable existence, without luxuries, without comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. O non!" she cried, "non—je ne me tairai pas—c'est plus fort que moi! I take these gentlemen and this lady for judges—is this kind? is it decent? is it manly? Do I not deserve better at his hands after having married him and"—(a visible hitch)—"done everything in the world to please him?"
I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed company at a table; everyone looked like a fool; and the husband like the biggest.
"The art of Monsieur, however," said Elvira, breaking the silence, "is not wanting in distinction."
"It has this distinction," said the wife, "that nobody will buy it."
"I should have supposed a clerkship" began Stubbs.
"Art is Art," swept in Leon. "I salute Art. It is beautiful, the divine; it is the spirit of the world, and the pride of life. But" And the actor paused.
"A clerkship" began Stubbs.
"I'll tell you what it is," said the painter. "I am an artist, and as this gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course, if my wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition all day long, I prefer to go and drown myself out of hand."
