The art of Monsieur, however," said Elvira, breaking the silence, "is
not wanting in distinction."

"It has this distinction," said the wife, "that nobody will buy it."

"I should have supposed a clerkship----" began Stubbs.

"Art is Art," swept in Leon. "I salute Art. It is the beautiful, the
divine; it is the spirit of the world and the pride of life. But----"
And the actor paused.

"A clerkship----" began Stubbs.

"I'll tell you what it is," said the painter. "I am an artist, and as
this gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course, if my
wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition all day long, I
prefer to go and drown myself out of hand."

"Go!" said his wife. "I should like to see you!"

"I was going to say," resumed Stubbs, "that a fellow may be a clerk and
paint almost as much as he likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makes
capital water-colour sketches; he even sold one for seven-and-six."

To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; each hopefully
interrogated the countenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artist
herself!--but indeed there must be something permanently mercantile in
the female nature. The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; not
otherwise might two philosophers salute, as at the end of a laborious
life each recognised that he was still a mystery to his disciples.

Leon arose.

"Art is Art," he repeated sadly. "It is not water-colour sketches, nor
practising on a piano. It is a life to be lived."

"And in the meantime people starve!" observed the woman of the house.
"If that's a life, it is not one for me."

"I'll tell you what," burst forth Leon; "you, Madame, go into another
room and talk it over with my wife; and I'll stay here and talk it over
with your husband. It may come to nothing, but let's try."

"I am very willing," replied the young woman; and she proceeded to light
a candle. "This way, if you please." And she led Elvira upstairs into a
bedroom. "The fact is," said she, sitting down, "that my husband cannot
paint."

"No more can mine act," replied Elvira.

"I should have thought he could," returned the other; "he seems clever."

"He is so, and the best of men besides," said Elvira; "but he cannot
act."

"At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he can at least sing."

"You mistake Leon," returned his wife warmly. "He does not even pretend
to sing; he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living. And, believe
me, neither of the