Yvonne. Then you really work less than I thought.
Alice (in an awed voice). Yvonne, how can you! I work constantly. The air is my canvas, my nerves are the brushes. I work? God, how I do work! To contemplate, to wait, to dream, is not this work?
Yvonne. I suppose so—but—
Alice. Oh, I know—you all think, except George, that I do nothing. Well, rather that, if it were true, than what one generally sees on canvas, every year, at the Academies.
Yvonne. You think then that it is better not to paint at all and wait as you say—than to do an inferior thing?
Alice. Undoubtedly.
Yvonne. This waiting—what effect will it have—what will it do for you or for Art?
Alice. I wait. “To feel is better than to know.”
Yvonne. If one really feels, perhaps, but to wait and wait and wait, you know what the end will be?
Alice. I hope to become like Beauty, myself—a living creation, a work of art—even though I do nothing ever in paint.