Miss Van Patten put in a word.
“I don’t see why artists are always placed in a class by themselves.”
“Quite right,” agreed Barnes. “The distinction is a purely arbitrary one. If there is any class, it belongs to the others—to the green-grocer and his peck of potatoes.”
“You’re an artist then?” inquired Carl in surprise.
Barnes himself was a bit surprised.
“All honest men are artists,” he replied vaguely.
“And all honest men keep their accounts,” stuck in Aunt Philomela.
“If they have any to keep. I doubt if strictly honest men have any.”
“Are you a Socialist?” inquired Carl.
“No. I keep an account with myself. If I don’t use figures, why I lie awake longer at night.”