It was easy. He was probably a Wagnerian singer.
“I suppose you have to be very careful about your throat.”
“Why, no,” he said; “I never think about my throat.”
He wasn’t a singer.
“Well, you’re in love with your art.”
He smiled. “Yes, I’m in love with it.”
I was in despair. What was he?
But now I would nail him. “What are your methods of work, Mr. Cavendish?”
“Oh, I don’t spend much time in over-elaboration. My brush-strokes are very broad.”
Ah, a painter! “Exactly,” I said. “You like a free hand.”