This was a difficult question. Blake simpered and forgot to say anything. Bob made a benevolent groaning noise and patted him on the shoulder.
“You’ll outgrow it; you’ll outgrow it. Here, I have another young rebel for you to meet. Teddy! Where has he gone?”
“Huh?” Over in the corner some one was prowling about looking at the pictures. He came out of the shadows and stood waiting.
“This is Teddy Madden. He ran away from home and came here to find himself and be a genius.” Bob patted Teddy now, in the same fashion. “You must be great friends. Teddy, this boy has just been expelled from school. He’s going to tell us why.”
Across the painful benevolence that trembled in the air, the boys looked at each other and took stock. Madden was older. His legs and arms were sure of themselves. But he was not quite grown up; his mouth was not quite sure.
“Teddy’s a great artist,” Bob said. “Artists always run away from home, Mary. It’s a law of Nature. Didn’t they tell you that at school?” he asked Blake.
“No, sir. They never talk about artists at all.”
“Oh, come now.” Bob leaned forward hopefully, with his tirade against modern education all ready in his mouth. “Do you mean to say that you didn’t study Michelangelo?”
“But that’s not art,” Blake said, in all sincerity. “That’s Ancient History.”
“And that’s an epigram, my son,” said Mary.