Your talk of art is nothing more than talk.

You think, in truth, of pounds, shillings and pence." "I think of them a good deal," said Madeline, "and I should be an idiot if I didn't.

What is art if the artist has nothing to live on?
Pray, what are _you_ going to do henceforth?
Shall you scorn the mention of pounds, shillings and pence?
Come to see me when you have had no dinner to-day, and are feeling very uncertain about breakfast in the morning, and I will say, 'Pooh! your talk about art was after all nothing but talk; you are a sham!'" Marsh's leg began to ache.

He rose and moved about the room.

Madeline at length turned her eyes to him; he was brooding genuinely, and not for effect.