except for myself. I shall know that another time."
There was a deep suppressed bitterness in his tone, which indicated more than his feeling about the picture. Isabel was silent for some moments. In her thoughts, as well as his, perhaps, the picture symbolised a deeper failure. She moved restlessly, walked away from the easel, trailing her rich dress carelessly over a brush that had fallen on the floor; she flushed, bit her lips, and finally said sharply:
"I shouldn't think you'd like to admit a failure like this without—without really trying to do as well as you can by it—and by me. I want you to go on—perhaps the mood will come—if not, I shan't reproach you—and I shall have got something out of it—some satisfaction"
"I can't," said Basil gently. "It's useless, it's only wasting your time—and my own. I couldn't let you pay me for a picture I thought bad. If I'm to do pot-boilers, they must be for people who honestly want bad things. For that you're too intelligent. Let's say no more about it, please."
"You will not, then, do what I ask, if only to please me?"
"I can't."
"Then you're brutally unkind to me."
Basil's face flushed darkly. In a flash of his quick temper he caught up a brush from the
