AS FALSE AS STAIRS OF SAND.
Merchant of Venice; v.—2.
"Very likely you cannot see it," Arthur Fenton said, striking in the background of a portrait with vicious roughness. "Women and brutes differ from men in lacking reason; if you were logical you'd see."
"See that you are right in selling your convictions for patronage," Helen returned gravely, ignoring the insult. "Then I am glad I am not logical."
"If you choose to put it that way," he retorted doggedly, "I must still say yes."
It was Friday morning, and Helen was to sail the next day. She had come to Fenton's studio to bid him good-by, knowing that they should have that to say which could not be freely spoken before Edith, and yet not choosing to have him come to her own house without his wife.
"Poverty," he went on aggressively, "is nature's protest against civilization, and still more against art. I am bound to fight nature on her own ground, am I not?"
"If I were a little more orthodox," she replied, "I might quote Scripture upon life's being some thing more than meat. Oh, Arthur, what is the use of all this fencing? All that is asked of you is to be honest; and to be honest the life of an artist in America to-day must be a protest against dominant Philistinism; nobody has ever acknowledged that oftener or more emphatically than you have."
"But the artists," returned he, not meeting her eyes, "are too self-centered. Look at the Pagans; what efforts have they ever made to win society? Society is ready enough to take them in."
"Arthur! Is it you who say that? To quote yourself against yourself, 'every work of art is an effort to conquer Philistinism.' Patronage seems already to have sucked the life out of you."
"You may say what you like," Fenton remarked defensively; "you cannot make me angry."