nonsense! I am learning, so that I may understand you better. To appreciate you thoroughly, my ambition soars no higher than that."
Philip looked at his watch, turned towards the door that led to the street, and made a little gesture of impatience, that did not escape Dora.
"Philip," said she, "what are you thinking of?"
"Why, of you, dear, always you."
"No, you were not thinking about me just now. You cannot deceive me," said she coaxingly. "Do you know that, of late, I have observed a little change in you – oh! just a little change."
"A change? What a little goose you are!"
"Oh, I am not so silly as all that; the fact is you seem absent-minded lately, anxious, irritable even; and, worse than all that, this morning you had forgotten it was the anniversary of our wedding. Now, had you not?"
Philip started.
"Oh, but I am quite sure of what I am saying. I am certain you had forgotten."
"What nonsense! it is all in your imagination, my dear child."
"No, it is not," said Dora, with great emphasis; "a woman's intuition is often a safer guide than her eyes."
"Your intuition, then, for once is wrong."
"Come, come," said Dora tenderly, "tell me, have you any troubles, any little worry?"
"No, dear, none," said Philip, frowning a little. "Let me get on with my work, and don't ask silly questions."
"Oh, very well," said Dora, pouting.
She rose, and went away from the easel a few steps; but noticing that Philip was looking at her, as if to ask her forgiveness for having been a trifle abrupt, she turned her steps towards him, and, laying her head on his shoulder, burst into tears; then looking him in the face, with eyes that were smiling through the tears, she cried, "Oh, do tell me what ails you."
"What a child you are, dearest! I assure you, there is nothing the matter."
"I know better."
"You will have to believe me," said Philip, in a not very convincing tone, but doing his best to comfort her with his look, "when I tell you, that there is absolutely nothing wrong, although" —
"Although? Ah!" cried Dora, "you see that I was right after all. Well?"
And she eagerly waited to hear the explanation that should put an end to all her conjectures.
"Well, then, yes," said Philip resolutely, "there is something. Sometimes I feel I should like to do so much more for you than I have been able."
"What an idea! There is not a woman in the world with whom I should like to change places. How could I be happier than I am?"
"What is your definition of happiness?" said Philip, continuing to paint.
"For a woman," replied Dora, with warmth, "happiness consists in being loved by the man whom she loves and can be proud of; in being rich enough to afford all the necessary comforts of life, and poor enough to make pulling together a necessity; an existence hand in hand, side by side. And what is yours?"
"Well, I confess, I should like to be a little richer than that," said Philip, with a little amused smile.
"Ah! I see," exclaimed Dora sadly; "you are beginning to grow tired of this quiet life of ours. Take care, Philip, noise frightens happiness away. Happy the house that is hidden in the trees, as the nest in the thick of the hedges."
"My dear child, we have to live for the world a little."
"Excuse me if I do not understand you," said Dora; "I am only a woman. I can live for you, and for you alone. I know that love is not sufficient even for the most devoted and affectionate of husbands. A woman can live on love and die of it. That's the difference. Now, what is your definition of happiness?"
"To be blessed with a dear, adorable wife; to have money enough to enable me to surround her with every luxury. Yes, I long to be really rich, if only to make my father repent of his treatment of me. In his eyes a man is successful according to his proven ability to pile up money. Ah, that letter of his, how it rankles in my mind still and always will!"
"What letter is that?" said Dora; "you never spoke to me of it before. Why, what a tomb of dark secrets you are!"
Philip rose, went to a drawer, took out a letter, and returned with it in his hand.
"Here it is," he said; "listen."
"MY SON,
– When I opened to you the doors of the banking house which I have founded, and bade you join me as a clerk who would eventually be master of it, I did not doubt that you had sufficient good sense and filial docility to make you joyfully accept such an opening. It appears that you have neither of these qualities. Twice I have made the offer, twice you have declined it. From this day please to consider yourself free to follow art or any other road to starvation. I relinquish all right to direct your career, but I also require you to relinquish all right to call yourself the son of
Philip folded the letter and replaced it in the drawer.
"Yes," said Dora, "it was a cruel letter, for, after all, your only crime had been to wish to become an artist. And yet, a father knows that out of a hundred men who take up painting as a profession, one or two perhaps get to the top of the tree. Where is the father who would advise his son to work at art, music, or literature for a livelihood? In the case of a real vocation, he may bow gracefully to the inevitable, but, as a rule, a parent does not bring up his sons with a view to making artists of them. On the contrary, he does what he can to dissuade them from choosing that course. In the case of your father, my dear Philip, I think one might allow extenuating circumstances. Where is the head of the family who would not dread for his sons these often illiberal professions? Professions, which ninety-nine times out of a hundred bring in little besides disappointments, disillusions, a miserable pittance, and often despair? Try and forget this grievance, darling. In any case you have had your revenge already. You are celebrated, and we are no longer poor."
"Ah, but we have been, and it has sometimes brought tears of rage to my eyes, and to-day we are a long, a very long way, from being rich."
"Ah, but think what an enviable lot yours is!" said Dora proudly. "Yours is the most honourable of callings. You have no poor wretches sweating for you. Your income is the fruit of your personal handiwork. You are your own master. You help to make life beautiful. You have a fame increasing every day. You enjoy the respect of everybody, the admiration of the public, the appreciation of the best critics, the company and the friendship of all the intelligence of London. A king might well envy the life of a great artist!"
Dora was excited, and Philip looked at her with eyes that thanked her for all she thought of him.
"You are quite right," he resumed, "and I am far from complaining of my fate. I have also full confidence in the future. But you, my darling; it is of you I am thinking."
"Of me?" exclaimed Dora. "But do I not share all your honours? What more can I wish for? Why, my dear boy," she added, laughing, "before ten years have passed you will be knighted, and I run the risk of being one day Lady Grantham. Just fancy?" And she drew herself up most comically.
They both burst out laughing. Philip was in a confessing mood,
