me in my art life, to bring the poor weak fellow, who had some
talent, but who didn't know how to apply it, into the light of success!
You meant to make me from the first, and that meant unmaking the man you
had married, the man who had lived apart in the odd, little
unfashionable Bayswater house, who had lived the odd, little
unfashionable life, composing Te Deums and Bible rubbish, the man whom
nobody knew, and who didn't specially want to know anyone, except his
friends. You thought I was an eccentricity--"

"No, no!" she almost faltered, bending under the storm of unreserve
which had broken in this reserved man.

"An eccentricity, when I was just being simply myself, doing what I was
meant to do, what I could do, drawing my inspiration not from the
fashions of the moment but from the subjects, the words, the thoughts,
which found their way into my soul. I didn't care whether they had found
their way into other people's souls. What did that matter to me? Other
people were not my concern. I didn't think about them. I didn't care
what they cared for, only what I cared for. I was myself, just that. And
from to-night I'm going to be just that, just simply myself again. It's
the only chance for an artist." He paused, fixing his eyes upon her till
she was forced to lift her eyes to his. "And I believe--I believe in my
soul it's the only chance for a man."

He stood looking into her eyes. Then he repeated:

"The only chance for a man."

He went back slowly to the piano, grasped it, held it once more.

"Charmian," he said, "you've done your best. You've drawn me into the
world, into the great current of life; you've played upon the surface
ambition that I suppose there is in almost every man; you've given me a
host of acquaintances; you've turned me from the one or two things that
I fancied I might make something of since we married, _The Hound of
Heaven_, the violin concerto. On the other side of the account you found
me that song, and Lake to sing it. And you got me Gillier's libretto and
opened the doors of Crayford's opera-house to me. You've devoted
yourself to me. I know that. You've given up the life you loved in
London, your friends, your parties, and consecrated yourself to the life
of the opera. You've done your best. You've stuck to it. You've done all
that you, or any other woman with your views and desires, could do for
me in art. You've unmade me. I've been weak and contemptible enough to
let you unmake m