He enjoyed her amazement.

'A hundred pounds!' she repeated, faintly. 'And however are we going
to repay all that?'

He drew her back to him triumphantly.

'Why, you silly child, I'm going to earn it, of course--and a deal
more. Don't you hinder me, Phoebe! and I shall be a rich man before
we can look round, and you'll be a lady--with a big house--and your
carriage, perhaps!'

He kissed her vehemently, as though to coerce her into agreeing with
him.

But she released herself.

'You and I'll _never_ be rich. We don't know how.'

'Speak for yourself, please.' He stretched out his right hand,
laughing. 'Look at that hand. If it gets a fair chance it's got money
in it--and fame--and happiness for us both! _Don't_ you believe in me,
Phoebe? Don't you believe I shall make a painter?'

He spoke with an imperious harshness, repeating his query. It was
evident, curiously evident, that he cared for her opinion.

'Of course I believe in you,' she said, her chest heaving.
'It's--it's--other things.'