you come to a certain point; after that point, when you begin to think
of quality and transparency, it is most difficult.'

They were standing on the bridge. The water below them was full of
ducks. The birds balanced themselves like little boats on the waves,
and Mildred thought of her five hundred a year and the pleasure it
would be to help Ralph to paint the pictures he wanted to paint. She
imagined him a great artist; his success would be her doing. At that
same moment he was thinking that there never had been any pleasure in
his life; and Mildred--her hat, her expensive dress, her sunshade--
seemed in such bitter contrast to himself, to his own life, that he
could not hide a natural irritation.

'Your life has been all pleasure,' he said, glancing at her
disdainfully.

'No, indeed, it has not. My life has been miserable enough. We are
rich, it is true, but our riches have never brought me happiness. The
best time I've had has been since I met you.'

'Is that true? I wonder if that's true.'

Their eyes met and she said hastily, with seeming desire to change the
subject:

'So you're a Londoner born and bred, and yet you'd like to live in the
country.'

'Only for my painting. I love London, but you can't paint landscapes
in London.'