"Er—um—perhaps that covers a good deal of the ground. But what put the idea into your head? Why should you be afraid of me?"
"I'm not. Only—I've thought that it would be more respectful if I were. You are so celebrated, you see. That's the first thing I heard about you—I mean, about your being such a famous artist. I heard you were rich too, but of course that didn't interest me so much."
"No? That proves the benefit of the glass-retort system."
"Why—how, please?"
"Because princesses who haven't been bottled up in them, but have lived in the lap of luxury—and in the laps of luxurious mothers—understand the value of money, and consider men famed for their millions worth a dozen who've wrapped themselves up in a few rags of some lesser kind of fame."
"You call being a great artist a lesser kind of fame?"
"I didn't once. But since I've got into the money-making habit, I've accepted the world's opinion."
"Pooh!" said I rudely. "I don't believe you have, because the first minute I saw you, I felt sure you were a real man. That's why I just had to speak to you in the station, instead of one of the others. I knew—by instinct, I suppose, as you say I know about motors. Think of the glory of being able to create beautiful things!"
"Think of being able to buy them! Jewels and castles and yachts, and all sorts of things that women love. Motor-cars for instance."
"You could buy motor-cars with money you earned by painting pictures, couldn't you?"