shall soon be wanting
money."

The tears rose to Alice's eyes. She saw that he was more infinitely more
mad than she imagined--with his L800 and his L1,500 for daubs of
pictures that conveyed no meaning whatever to the eye! Why, you could
purchase real, professional pictures, of lakes, and mountains,
exquisitely finished, at the frame-makers in High Street for three
pounds apiece! And here he was rambling in hundreds and thousands! She
saw that that extraordinary notion about being able to paint was a
natural consequence of the pathetic delusion to which he had given
utterance yesterday. And she wondered what would follow next. Who could
have guessed that the seeds of lunacy were in such a man? Yes, harmless
lunacy, but lunacy nevertheless! She distinctly remembered the little
shock with which she had learned that he was staying at the Grand
Babylon on his own account, as a wealthy visitor. She thought it
bizarre, but she certainly had not taken it for a sign of lunacy. And
yet it had been a sign of madness. And the worst of harmless lunacy was
that it might develop at any moment into harmful lunacy.

There was one thing to do, and only one: keep him quiet, shield him from
all troubles and alarms. It was disturbance of spirit which induced
these mental derangements. His master's death had upset him. And now he
had been upset by her disgraceful brewery company.

She made a step towards him, and then hesitated. She had to form a plan
of campaign all in a moment! She had to keep her wits and to use them!
How could she give him confidence about his absurd picture? She noticed
that naive look that sometimes came into his eyes, a boyish expression
that gave the He to his greying beard and his generous proportions.

He laughed, until, as she came closer, he saw the tears on her eyelids.
Then he ceased laughing. She fingered the edge of his coat, cajolingly.

"It's a beautiful picture!" she repeated again and again. "And if you
like I will see if I can sell it for you. But, Henry----"

"Well?"

"Please, please don't bother about money. We shall have _heaps_. There's
no occasion for you to bother, and I won't _have_ you bothering."

"What are you crying for?" he asked in a murmur.

"It's only--only because I think it's so nice of you trying to earn
money like that," she lied. "I'm not really crying."

And she ran away, downstairs, really crying. It was excessively comic,
but he had better not follow her, lest he might