'It isn't that!' he said, impatiently, but kissing her. 'It is that I
must be my own master--I must have nothing to think of but my art--I
must slave night and day--I must live with artists--I must get to
know all sorts of people who might help me on. If you and Carrie came
up--just at first--I couldn't do the best for myself--I couldn't, I
tell you. And of course I mean the best for _you_, in the long run.
If I go, I must succeed. And if I can give all my mind, I _shall_
succeed. Don't you think I shall?'

He drew away from her abruptly--holding her at arm's length,
scrutinising her face almost with hostility.

'Yes,' said Phoebe, slowly, 'Yes, of course you'll succeed--if you
don't quarrel with people.'

'Quarrel,' he repeated, angrily. 'You're always harping on
that--you're always so _afraid_ of people. It does a man no harm, I
tell you, to be a bit quick-tempered. I shan't be a fool.'

'No, but--I could warn you often. And then you know,' she said,
slowly, caressing his shoulder with her hand--'I could look after
money. You're dreadfully bad about money, John. Directly you've got
it, you spend it--and sometimes when you borrow you forget all about
paying it back.'

He was struck dumb for a moment with astonishment; feeling at the same
time the trembling of the form which his arm still encircled.

'Well, Phoebe,' he said, at last, 'you seem determined to say