resolved that made over it should be in accordance with his
ideas.

"I don't spend thousands over a thing unless I have my say in what it's
to be like," he remarked, with a twist of his body, at a crisis of the
conflict with Claude. "I wouldn't do it. It's me that is out to lose if
the darned thing's a failure."

There was a silence. The discussion had been long and ardent. Outside,
the heat brooded almost sternly over the land, for the sky was covered
with a film of gray, unbroken by any crevice through which the blue
could be seen. It was a day on which nerves get unstrung, on which the
calmest, most equable people are apt to lose their tempers suddenly,
unexpectedly.

Claude had felt as if he were being steadily thrashed with light little
rods, which drew no blood, but which were gradually bruising him,
bruising every part of him. But when Crayford said these last sentences
it seemed to Claude as if the blood came oozing out in tiny drops. And
from the very depths of him, of the real genuine man who lay in
concealment, rose a lava stream of contempt, of rage. He opened his lips
to give it freedom. But Charmian spoke quickly, anxiously, and her eyes
travelled swiftly from Claude's face to Alston's, and to Crayford's.

"Then if we--I mean if my husband does what you wish, you _will_ spend
thousands over it?" she said, "you _will_ produce it, give it its
chance?"

Never yet had that question been asked. Never had Crayford said anything
definite. Naturally it had been assumed that he would not waste his time
over a thing in which he did not think of having a money interest. But
he had been careful not to commit himself to any exact statement which
could be brought against him if, later on, he decided to drop the whole
affair. Charmian's abrupt interposition was a challenge. It held Claude
dumb, despite that rage of contempt. It drew Alston's eyes to the face
of his patron. There was a moment of tense silence. In it Claude felt
that he was waiting for a verdict that would decide his fate, not as a
successful man, but as a self-respecting artist. As he looked at the
face of his wife he knew he had not the strength to decide his own fate
for himself in accordance with the dictates of the hidden man within
him. He strove to summon up that strength, but a sense of pity, that
perhaps really was akin to love, intervened to prevent its advent.
Charmian's eyes seemed to hold her soul in that moment. He could not
strike it