Crowdie knew what he was talking about. In painting, his talent lay chiefly in expressing that perishable, passionate animation which is in every human face. And so far as the voice was concerned, his own was remarkable, and the few who ever heard him sing were almost inclined to ask whether he had not mistaken his vocation and erred in not becoming a public singer. It is not an uncommon thing to find painters who have beautiful voices. Gustave Doré, for instance, might have earned both reputation and fortune as a tenor.
“I’m afraid you’re an incorrigible heathen, Walter,” said Mrs. Bright. “I wonder you haven’t set up gods and goddesses all over your house—you and Hester—with little tripods before them, and garlands and perfumes—like Tadema’s pictures, you know.”
“You can’t symbolize matter, aunt Maggie,” laughed Crowdie. “If you do, you get entangled with the ideal again, and your symbol turns into an idol. The Greek statues were meant for portraits of gods and goddesses, not for symbols. So were the pictures and the images of the early church—portraits of divine and holy personages. The moment such things become symbols, there’s a revulsion, and they turn into idols.”
“That’s a profound thought, Crowdie,” said Griggs. “I don’t believe you ever hit on it by yourself.”
“Well—it’s in my consciousness, anyhow, and I don’t know where it comes from,” answered the painter. “I suppose it’s part of my set of ideas about matter.”
“It all seems to me very abstruse,” said Wingfield, who was considerably bored by the discussion, to Katharine, who was listening.
“No,” she answered, quickly. “I like it. It interests me.”
She had only glanced at him, but she had realized at once that he was still wholly occupied with herself. There was a wistful, longing regret in his black eyes just then which she understood well enough. She was sincerely sorry for him, and would have done anything reasonable in her power to comfort him. As he turned from her she looked at him again with an expression which might have been interpreted to mean an affectionate pity, though she had certainly never got so far as to feel anything approaching to affection for the magnificent youth. Almost immediately she was conscious that both Ralston and Bright were watching her during the momentary pause in the conversation.
“Why are you both looking at me like that?” she asked, innocently glancing from one to the other.
“Oh—nothing!” answered Bright, colouring suddenly and turning his eyes away. “I didn’t know I was staring.”