Then Bayre put in,—
“London’s a beastly hole, full of fog and smoke and mud, and hurrying people, and jostling ambitions that are never satisfied. As for social enjoyment, it’s a fallacy. People know you there, not as yourself, but as only a tiny part of London and its life. Real friendship, real social enjoyment, real art you get only outside.”
She looked at him with interest.
“I wonder!” she said softly. Then she added, in even a lower tone, “Still, one would like to try!”
Both the young men were silent, interested, too, in the bubbling vitality that wanted some outlet, in the vague, girlish unrest that “wanted to know.”
“In short, if you’re to believe Bayre, London’s a humbug,” said Repton. “But to us artists life and art are everywhere.”
“Are you an artist?” she asked with frank interest. “With a studio, a real studio, where you work?”
Repton smiled at the manner of the question.
“I don’t know about being a real artist,” he said, with a sudden affectation of modesty, “but I have a real studio in Horton Street, Tottenham Court Road, where I paint pictures.”
“That must be nice.” And then, with that persistent interest in Bayre which seemed to his companion so offensive and unnecessary, she turned to him and said, “And are you an artist too?”