l!"

The adjuration had an unexpected effect. Kate's colour faded suddenly,
and she sat motionless, with a stricken face.

"There's a difference--" she began at length abruptly; "the difference
you've always insisted on. Mr. Mungold paints as well as he can. He has
no idea that his pictures are--less good than they might be."

"Well--?"

"So he can't be accused of doing what he does for money--of sacrificing
anything better." She turned on him with troubled eyes. "It was you who
made me understand that, when Caspar used to make fun of him."

Stanwell smiled. "I'm glad you still think me a better painter than
Mungold. But isn't it hard that for that very reason I should starve in
a hole? If I painted badly enough you'd see no objection to my living
at the Waldorf!"

"Ah, don't joke about it," she murmured. "Don't triumph in it."

"I see no reason to at present," said Stanwell drily. "But I won't
pretend to be ashamed when I'm not. I think there are occasions when a
man is justified in doing what I've done."

She looked at him solemnly. "What occasions?"

"Why, when he wants money, hang it!"

She drew a deep breath. "Money--money? Has Caspar's example been
nothing to you, then?"

"It hasn't proved to me that I must starve while Mungold lives on
truffles!"

Again her face changed and she stirred uneasily, and then rose to her
feet.

"There is no occasion which can justify an artist's sacrificing his
convictions!" she exclaimed.

Stanwell rose too, facing her with a mounting urgency which sent a
flush to his cheek.

"Can't you conceive such an occasion in my case? The wish, I mean, to
make things easier for Caspar--to help you in any way you might let me?"

Her face reflected his blush, and she stood gazing at him with a
wounded wonder.

"Caspar and I--you imagine we could live on money earned in _that_ way?"

Stanwell made an impatient gesture. "You've got to live on
something--or he has, even if you don't include yourself!"

Her blush deepened miserably, but she held her head high.

"That's just it--that's what I came here to say to you." She stood a
moment gazing away from him at the lake.

He looked at her in surprise. "You came here to say something to me?"

"Yes. That we've got to live on something, Caspar and I, as you say;
and since an artist cannot sacrifice his convictions, the sacrifice
must--I mean--I wanted you to know that I have promised to marry Mr.
Mungold."

"Mungold!" Stanwe