"You'll excuse me," he said, "but you've not paid for those photographs."
"You haven't printed them yet."
"My rule is that payment must be made at the time of sitting."
"Well, I won't pay for a thing until I get it."
We squabbled about it, and finally came to a compromise. Then rather abruptly he asked me to come to supper with him that night.
"And I warn you," he said, "that I live solely on what I make by this photographic business."
Of course I went. We had supper in the caravan. It consisted of chops and potatoes, which Cyrus Verd cooked. He cooked better than he photographed. We drank beer, which Verd had fetched from the public-house in a jug. He had no servant with him, and did everything for himself. I jeered at him gently all through supper.
"It's very pretty," I said, "but it is play-acting. It's not genuine."
"It is absolutely genuine. I tell you that I love simplicity. Had I my choice, I would always go on like this, and I like the work too. In this little village I've already picked up enough orders to keep me busy for a week. Every year I have a month of this, and I look forward to it as I look forward to nothing else."
"What?" I said. "Do you think that this sort of thing proves that you love simplicity? It proves the absolute contrary—that you love variety. No one is compelled to live the life of a rich man against his will. If you live that life for eleven months in the year, and the life of a poor man for one month, you like to be rich eleven times as much as you like to be poor."