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.' Then, coming to him again, she flung her arms piteously round him.
'Oh, John, John--for a year past--and more--you've been sorry you married me!' 'What on earth's the matter with you ?' he cried, half in wrath, half astonished.

'What's come to you, Phoebe ?' 'Oh! I know,' she said, withdrawing herself and speaking in a low current of speech.

'You were very fond of me when we married--and--and I dare say you're fond of me now--but it's different.

You were a boy then--and you thought you'd get drawing-lessons in Kendal, and perhaps a place at a school--and you didn't seem to want anything more.