you're no better than a
speculator--a hand-to-mouth, don't-know-where-you-are-to-morrow sort of
person. Now, that sort of thing _won't do_, Mr. Vernon. Before you next
think of marrying a girl in my daughter's position, let me give you this
bit of advice: learn to paint your pictures on some kind of proper
business principles. If you do them, say, once a month and sell them at
a standard price--just as other folks have to manufacture and sell their
goods--you'll not find yourself in the same ridiculous position you're
in at this moment."

Mr. Walkingshaw rose to indicate that the interview was at an end; but
the artist's endurance ended first.

"Mr. Walkingshaw! Did you ever _make_ anything in your life?"

The W.S. stared at him.

"I have made most of what I possess, sir."

"Pooh! You're talking of money. Does your mind never run on anything
but money? I mean, have you ever made a hat or a shoe, or a book or a
picture, or even a cheese? Have you ever actually turned out anything
that was the least use or pleasure to anybody?"

Vernon's blue eyes were bent upon him in such an extraordinarily intense
and flashing manner that Mr. Walkingshaw found himself compelled to
answer.

"That kind of thing is--ah--not in my line."

"Then," burst forth the artist, "you can no more judge of my work than
a toasting-fork can judge of a steam engine. The woman who cooks your
dinner understands more than you do. She knows better than to think it
costs no more time and trouble to cook an omelette than boil an egg.
A picture a month, and the same price for each! Confound it, Mr.
Walkingshaw, you make me ashamed of you!"

"Do you imagine, sir, that that affects me?"

"If I were you, I'd prefer my son-in-law to respect me."

Mr. Walkingshaw positively jumped.

"You mean to--er--"

"Marry her, whether you like it or not! I'm in love--and she loves me!
There's not the least use trying to explain to you what love means. It
would be like trying to explain a cigar to a chicken. You're too
respectable. You can't understand."

The tirade ceased abruptly, and the young man smiled again upon the
petrified Writer to the Signet.

"I am going back to London to-night. Just give me a year or two, Mr.
Walkingshaw. I'll make an income for her."

Mr. Walkingshaw regained his senses.

"You will never be admitted inside this house in your life again, sir.
You will never marry _my_ daughter; and mind you, you needn't flatter
yourself she