Then he could paint no more.

He flung down the brushes, and turned to talk to her.
Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical and cold.
"You are affected in that piece," she would say; and, as there was an element of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled with anger.
Again: "What of this ?" he would ask enthusiastically.
"H'm!" She made a small doubtful sound.

"It doesn't interest me much." "Because you don't understand it," he retorted.
"Then why ask me about it ?" "Because I thought you would understand." She would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work.

She maddened him.

He was furious.