And why?
THE PAINTER.
Because—because artists ought never to marry.
THE POET.
That's rather too good. You dare to say that, and the lamp does not go out suddenly, and the walls don't fall down upon your head! But just think, wretch, that for two hours past, you have been setting before me the enviable spectacle of the very happiness you forbid me. Are you by chance like those odious millionaires whose well-being is in-creased by the sufferings of others, and who better enjoy their own fireside when they reflect that it is raining out of doors, and that there are plenty of poor devils without a shelter?
THE PAINTER.
Think of me what you will. I have too much affection for you to help you to commit a folly—an irreparable folly.
THE POET.
Come! what is it? You are not satisfied? And yet it seems to me that one breathes in happiness here, just as freely as one does the air of heaven at a country window.
THE PAINTER.