Roger laughed. “There’s truth in that,” said he. “Still, I’m sure my fate is a matter of importance only to myself.” His expression settled to somberness again. “No, I shall go. Thank you, but I shall go.”
“There is work for you here—big work,” urged Richmond. “I shall see that you get it—that you don’t have to wait for recognition and be wearied and disgusted by the stupid injustices that keep men of genius out of their own.”
Roger’s simple and generous face softened, for his heart was touched. “I see you understand,” said he. “I wish I could show my appreciation by accepting your offer. But I can’t. I must go.”
“I admit that the atmosphere over there is more congenial—much more congenial—to your sort of work. But you’ll find us less unsympathetic than you think. Give us a trial, Wade.”
Roger was entirely convinced now, and was deeply moved. “I wish I could, Mr. Richmond. But if I am to work I must go.”
The older man leaned still farther toward the young man in his earnestness. “Why, you painted here one of the greatest pictures I’ve seen. Of course, my personal feeling may bias my judgment somewhat—for I am attached to my daughter as I am to no other human being”—Richmond’s voice trembled, and there were tears in his eyes—“I’m a fool about her, Wade—a damn fool!... Excuse my getting off the track. As I was saying, I may think the picture greater than it really is. But I know that it is really great—great!”
Roger tried to conceal his agitation.
“You painted it here. That means, you can do great work here. Did you ever paint a better picture in Europe?”
“No,” admitted Roger.
“Then you ought to stay.”