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He checked himself as with venom in his urgent tone he drew attention to the two by the easel. Patricia had paled under the fury of his quiet disclosure. The husky voice, which she had previously disliked, was in keeping with his mood and his words, and it therefore assumed new meaning, and her dislike was gone immediately. She saw him as a young man deeply—almost passionately—in earnest, but she was saddened by the picture of such unhappiness as his must be. Her vision of this whole affair became horrible, beyond bearing.

"If her work isn't any good," said Patricia, "surely she'll realise it? She is wise. At any rate, she's shrewd enough to find out the truth, isn't she? If it is the truth."

"Never. You don't understand what ... all this rot"—he waved vaguely—"means to her. When did a dud—a second-rate person—ever realise his second-rateness? Why, all the really able people I know, or that I've ever heard of, are humble—not that they aren't conceited, too; but it's in a different way. They're humble as well. They've got a sense of their own limitations. They're not like Amy. She's mad about her own cleverness. She calls herself an artist, when it's for other people to do that. And it's only because she guesses there's a catch somewhere. She feels she's failing, and won't face the reason. There's nothing like success for lowering a person's conceit. She's never had any success—not real success. She's got to make it all up inside. Her vanity's all out of control; and if you try to warn her she just flies into a passion and calls you a fool for your pains. She'll never have any success. It's impossible, with her temperament."