His manner was a curious blend of contempt and a terribly anxious hospitality. He despised these two young men, but he wished above all things to keep them there to talk to. Ambrose Matthews was a little more to his liking than Landry; he was able to see his point of view, and to discuss in all its subtle intricacies the anguish of the unfortunate artist. This never failed to astound Landry. He didn’t see what possible comfort it could be to Lawrence to dissect his sufferings, to describe so vividly as to re-live his most horrible moments.
“I should think you’d rather try to forget it,” he observed, rather bluntly.
Ambrose Matthews explained.
“My dear fellow, that’s the worst possible course. To repress, to conceal, and all that sort of thing.... What we need is to drag everything out into the sunlight. There the weeds will perish and the hardy plants thrive.”
“Sunlight doesn’t kill weeds,” said Lawrence. “I don’t talk for the benefit of my psyche, or my subconscious self, or my soul; I talk because it interests me.”
Landry got up.
“I’ll have to be getting along!” he said. “Will you tell Rosaleen I’m sorry I missed her?... Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”
“You might run in next door and get me a package of cigarettes,” said Lawrence. “I’ve begun to smoke.”
Resentful and sulky, Landry did this, and when he returned with them, he found Ambrose Matthews waiting for him.
“I’ll walk a part of the way with you,” he said, and, as was his habit, took his companion’s arm.