“Sit down,” roared Geoffrey.
“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing,” said McVay, “only I talk better on my feet.”
“Well, you wouldn’t talk as well with a bullet in you.”
McVay sank back again in his chair. “Yes,” he said, “that’s me. Why, Holland, I have no doubt you would be surprised if you knew the number of things that I can do—that I am really proficient in. Anything with the hands,” he waved his fingers supplely in the air, “is no trouble to me at all. I have at once a natural skill that most people take a lifetime to acquire.”
“I’m told there’s work for all where you are going.”
McVay looked a trifle puzzled for an instant, but never allowing himself to remain at a loss, he said:
“Work! Do you really mean to say that you believe in a utilitarian Heaven, where we are going to work with our hands? For my part—”
“I had reference to the penitentiary,” said Geoffrey.
“Oh, yes, of course, the penitentiary. There are some wonderful men in the penitentiary. You don’t admit that, I suppose, with your conventional ideas; but to me they are just as admirable as any other great creative artist,—sculptor or financier. I see you don’t quite get that. You are hemmed in by conventional standards, and your possessions, and all the things to which you attach such great importance.”
“I don’t attach so much importance that I steal them from other people,” said Geoffrey.