"You shouldn’t say that. It’s childish. Every one admires poetry."
She maintained an obstinate silence. Eddie was rather at a loss. He believed that every one ought to admire poets; he faithfully endeavored to do so, and had made himself believe that he had succeeded. He felt that his brother was a genius, accountable to no one, and not to be blamed for faults which seemed to Eddie peculiarly disgusting and unmanly; but he didn’t know how to make Angelica admire his brother. Even the fact of Vincent’s genius was by no means established, and could not be demonstrated to an outsider, for he had never published anything yet, nor attempted to do so.
"He’s a very interesting chap," Eddie said. "Very!"
"Well, I’m glad he’s not my husband," said Angelica. "Shutting himself up like that—wouldn’t suit me!"
Eddie frowned.
"I should think it was a privilege to be the wife of—of a genius."
Again Angelica was silent.
"Of course," said Eddie, "I don’t pretend to understand him. We’ve never seen much of each other. He lived with my father and I lived with my mother. He was brought up differently—a Roman Catholic, for one thing; then he went to an English university for a year or two, and he’s traveled. Very well-educated chap; altogether different from me. A scholar, and very artistic."
"What does he do for a living?" Angelica asked.
"He’s just beginning his career," said Eddie. "It is very hard to get started with that sort of thing."