"No—I did not mean it in that way—I mean that when a man has a talent it makes him think of something besides himself."
"I fancy there is more truth in that remark than either you or I would at first think," said the painter in a meditative tone.
"Of course there is," returned the youthful philosopher, with more enthusiasm than he would have cared to show if he had been talking to a woman. "What is talent but a combination of the desire to do and the power to accomplish? As for genius, it is never selfish when it is at work."
"Is that reflection your own?"
"I think so," answered Orsino modestly. He was secretly pleased that a man of the artist's experience and reputation should be struck by his remark.
"I do not think I agree with you," said Gouache.
Orsino's expression changed a little. He was disappointed, but he said nothing.
"I think that a great genius is often ruthless. Do you remember how Beethoven congratulated a young composer after the first performance of his opera? 'I like your opera—I will write music to it.' That was a fine instance of unselfishness, was it not. I can see the young man's face—" Anastase smiled.
"Beethoven was not at work when he made the remark," observed Orsino, defending himself.
"Nor am I," said Gouache, taking up his brushes again. "If you will resume the pose—so—thoughtful but bold—imagine that you are already an ancestor contemplating posterity from the height of a nobler age—you understand. Try and look as if you were already framed and hanging in the Saracinesca gallery between a Titian and a Giorgione."