much enthusiasm for art, go to see the galleries on the private-view
day, and are never seen in them again? Was it not sarcastic--"

"Spare me, Iris. I will never do it again. And knowing so much, do you
not desire to know more?"

"No, Arnold. I am not interested in anything else."

"But my position, my profession, my people--are you not curious to
know them?"

"No. They are not you. They are accidents of yourself."

"Philosopher! But you must know more about me. I told you I was an
artist. But you have never inquired whether I was a great artist or a
little one."

"You are still a little artist," she said. "I know that, without being
told. But perhaps you may become great when you learn to work
seriously."

"I have been lazy," he replied with something like a blush, "but that
is all over now. I am going to work. I will give up society. I will
take my profession seriously, if only you will encourage me."

Did he mean what he said? When he came away he used at this period to
ask himself that question, and was astonished at the length he had
gone. With any other girl in the world, he would have been taken at
his word, and either encouraged to go on, or snubbed on the spot. But
Iris received these advances as if they were a confession of weakness.

"Why do you want me to encourage you?" she asked. "I know nothing
about Art. Can't you encourage yourself, Arnold?"

"Iris, I must tell you something more about myself. Will you listen
for a moment? Well, I am the son of a clergyman who now holds a
colonial appointment. I have got the usual number of brothers and
sisters, who are doing the usual things. I will not bore you with
details about them."

"No," said Iris, "please do not."

"I am the adopted son, or ward, or whatever you please, of a certain
cousin. She is a single lady with a great income, which she promises
to bequeath to me in the future. In the meantime, I am to have
whatever I want. Do you understand the position, Iris?"

"Yes, I think so. It is interesting, because it shows why you will
never be a great artist. But it is very sad."

"A man may rise above his conditions, Iris," said Arnold meekly.

"No," she went on; "it is only the poor men who do anything good. Lala
Roy says so."

"I will pretend to be poor--indeed, I am poor. I have nothing. If it
were not for my cousin, I could not even profess to follow Art."

"What a pity," she said, "that you are rich! Lala Roy was rich once."

Arnol