Kate cogitated for a moment.
“You would have been an Egoist, only Meredith made you ashamed to be one,” she answered.
Hugh nodded approval at her hit.
“But I’m still a posturing, narrow-living ass, ain’t I?” he said, “like the rest of the writing tribe.”
“Oh,” said Kate comfortably, “of course one hates an author that’s all author—how [p195] does it go? fellows in foolscap uniforms turned up with ink? But you’re not that sort, Hughie. I will say for you that when you haven’t the pen in your hand you are just plain man.”
“Thanks, old girl,” said Hugh, grateful for a moment. But then he soon drooped again.
“No, no, the trail of the serpent is over the artistic temperament, Kit. Look at me,—if I get into a company where I’m pointed out, monstrari digito, as Hugh Kinross, I’m bored—and no doubt show that I am.”
“Yes, I’ve often noticed that,” said Kate, who had long secretly considered this rather a noble trait in her brother’s character.
“Yes,” said Hugh pensively, “and then when I get into a company where no one knows me from Smith the chemist’s clerk, a childish resentment comes over me.”
“Good heavens!” cried Kate.