"That's what I mean when I say he's not an artist. However, he declares he does like it, only it appears it is not the right thing for him. Oh, the right thing—he's bent upon getting that. But it's not for me to blame him, for I am too. He's coming some night, however: he shall have a dose!"
"Poor Peter!" Nick exclaimed, with a compassion none the less real because it was mirthful: the girl's tone was so expressive of good-humoured, unscrupulous power.
"He's such a curious mixture," Miriam went on; "sometimes I lose patience with him. It isn't exactly trying to serve both God and Mammon, but it's muddling up the stage and the world. The world be hanged; the stage, or anything of that sort (I mean one's faith), comes first."
"Brava, brava, you do me good," Nick murmured, still hilarious and at his work. "But it's very kind of you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to attribute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued, after a moment.
"Yes, I confess I don't quite see—when the shops were full of my photographs."
"Oh, I'm so poor—I don't go into shops," returned Nick.
"Are you very poor?"
"I live on alms."
"And don't they pay you—the government, the ministry?"
"Dear young lady, for what? for shutting myself up with beautiful women?"
"Ah, you have others, then?" asked Miriam.
"They are not so kind as you, I confess."
"I'll buy it from you—what you're doing: I'll pay you
