In the end he took his troubles to Mrs Abbot, a kindly, sentimental woman, who had always rather mothered the young artist. To her he poured out all his troubles, telling her how they misinterpreted his work, calling it ugly.
“But, my dear boy, it is ugly!”
“Ugly! Oh, but, Mrs Abbot. Why, come here. Look out there. Do you see the great chimney-stack of the Gas Works? Do you see how the red glare shines out against the black roofs; what could be lovelier?”
And he leapt up, seizing her hand, dragging her to the window. Gradually Mrs Abbot pacified him.
“My dear boy,” she said, “I dare say you may like that sort of thing, but you’ll find that it’s not what we think nice, and it’s what other people think nice that matters. Those chimneys of yours are all very well, and I know you’re fond of them, but the things we call beautiful are not a bit like that.”
“No?”
“No, of course not,” she went on, “the things we like—well, trees, fields, love—oh, you know, the joy, the beauty of life. Those are the things you ought to be painting.”
Eric Walker gazed out fondly at the red glare of the factory as it shone glimmering on the surrounding roofs, then he turned sadly to the water-colours that hung on the walls, soft and delicate, roses and arbours, with a suggestion of Love, fleeting and perilously dear. For him there was no beauty there—only cowardice, weakness and evasion.
That evening Mrs Abbot had a long and serious talk with her husband about her young protégé.
“Something must be done, Harry,” she said. “He’s such a dear boy, and he’s absolutely spoiling his chances. Now I tell you what we must do. We must take him right away from all this to some primitive, natural spot. When once he gets free from sordid influences he’ll respond to beauty like a child.”