ith hammer and saw."

"I am willing to labour, willing to face anything in life. But,
Mary--the confession of failure--you don't see how deep, how mad the
pride is in me."

"You have nothing to confess. The whole world knows you are a failure.
They talk about it openly. They spare me as much as possible, but I
can't shut my ears."

It was a staggering blow. "They despise me!" he breathed.

Her lips hesitated, clenched together, the corners convulsed with pain.

"They despise you!"

He found his defence. "Because I have not succeeded commercially." His
voice was full of scorn. "It matters little that these gross Philistines
misjudge me. They will yet regret it. I shall yet show them that I am
not so self-deceived as they imagine. I am an artist--art was born in my
blood, art is my whole existence. I shall stick to it till I fall dead.
I ask you, Mary, to believe in me a little longer."

"Heaven knows I have never wavered in my belief a moment. But it is not
my belief that can save you. You have made a brave attempt, but you have
been defeated. I am only facing the simple facts. The present position
seems to me a hopeless one to start from. You have no means behind you
now, so what is there before you save to go on in the same miserable way
as you have lived the last year or two? I see no possibility of anything
but repetition of the same unhappy experience--the world is not going to
step out of its way for your sake. And remember it has already made up
its mind about you."

"Then I have lost your sympathy!" he exclaimed. He stared gloomily into
the fire.

She saw now that the morbid sensibility of the man who had failed would
never face clear, cold reason, however gently administered.

"No, dear; you have not lost my sympathy. Please don't think that," she
pleaded. "Don't you see I want to be a real friend to you; don't you see
that you are more to me than your art?"

"I must fight it out," he insisted. "To-morrow I am starting a fresh lot
of things--to sell! I have always stood out for the big accomplishment,
but now I offer my labour in the market. Pretty designs, prettily
coloured--Cupids and pearly clouds and wreaths of flowers. The dealers
will take them. You will see, Mary, I shall manage to pull through yet."

She shook her head incredulously. "Better to give it up altogether
before it is too late."

"You can't mean it," he exclaimed. "You have stood by me so long that I
can't believe you are going