“Yes?” she said—and that was all.
“Well,” I retorted, “we think differently, you see; but at least my thoughts are consistent.”
“Aren’t mine?”
“How can you ask it?—at one moment rubbing into me the futility of my producing work that only I can understand; at another implying that I am idle because I don’t endlessly produce futility. Well, I tell you, if I put all my thoughts into the shape I should like, I should want a garde-meuble to store them in. But I spare myself and a suffering world that vain burden.”
There was still a little amused questioning in her eyes, so that I could have thought I read into them the rejoinder ‘The world does not suffer from some furniture being stored, but rather the reverse!’ She forbore all repartee, however, and answered me only, very simply and feelingly:—
“I am quite sure that is a natural attitude under the circumstances. Still you paint, do you not, if only for yourself?”
“Within reason,” I answered; “but my métier is the plastic business. I have plenty of sketches to show you, if you wish to see them.”
“O, yes!” she said—“please. That is what I want. And then you can tell me not why you painted them so, but——”
“But why I didn’t paint them not so? Very well. Marchez!”
We adjourned to the sitting-room, or studio, and I seated her in a good position and, getting out my portfolios, played judicious showman to my own goods—a fragmentary variety, impressions of men, things and places, forming the artistic excerpta of a vagabond and wanderer. She took them from me, one by one, a little mechanically, and I made no comment whatever, simply briefly stating the subjects and localities. Presently, pausing in her task, she looked up.