You must tell me who you are, I replied.
I should have told you, only you just arrived, Martha put in. I had no idea that Peter would come in today. He is the American Flaubert or Anatole France or something. He is writing a book. What is your book about, Peter?
Whiffle smiled, drew out a cigarette-case of Toledo work, extracted a cigarette from it, and said, I haven't the slightest idea. Then, as if he thought this might be construed as rudeness, or false modesty, or a rather viscous attempt at secrecy, he added, I really haven't, not the remotest. I want to talk to you about it.... That's why I wanted to meet you. Martha says that you know ... well, that you know.
You really should be painting Mr. Van Vechten now, said Clara Barnes, with a trace of malice. He has the right expression.
I hope I haven't interrupted your work, said Peter.
No, I'm through today, Martha rejoined. We're neither of us in the mood. Besides it's absurd to try to paint in this light.
Painting, Peter went on, is not any easier than writing. Always the search for—for what? he asked suddenly, turning to me.
For truth, I suppose, I replied.
I thought you would say that but that's not what I meant, that's not at all what I meant.
This logogriph rather concluded that subject, for Peter did not explain what it was that he did mean. Neither did he wear a conscious air of obfuscation. He rambled on about many things, spoke of new people, new books, new music, and he also mentioned Mary Garden.