“Sorry!” exploded the father. “Your mother, sir, is worth more to me than all the money in the Bank of England.”
“Of course she is. That’s bully of you, Dad. And you’ve lived up to that. You’ve fought for Art in fighting for her against Lord Dunnington and all his caddish tribe. Like any good artist, you’d sacrifice every round dollar to make her stand well before them. That isn’t business, it’s Art. It’s living up to your ideal against all the world.”
“But,” protested the father, “that isn’t painting pictures.”
“Lord forgive your blindness, Dad,” Barnes exclaimed. “Painting pictures is only one little way of expressing yourself. A man may be a great artist without ever having held a brush. A man may be a great artist in song, in verse, in prose, in life, even in business. But in business you mustn’t forget that back of it lies life. That’s where you slipped up. You forgot that you’re here to live—to give life to Mother, your masterpiece. To be sure, I’ve chosen to paint pictures. That seemed to me the only way in which I could live up to my best. But that doesn’t make me any better or worse than you. The whole game is to get broad and big through whatever you do.”
“Then why shouldn’t I stick to business?”
“Because you aren’t getting big; because you’ve gone stale. You need a change.”
Barnes, Sr., shifted in his chair. He reached for his cigar-box. That was a good sign.
“I—I don’t know but what you’re right, Dick,” he admitted.
“I’m sure of it, Dad.”
“I’ve thought lately that it—it wouldn’t be bad to take your mother back to the old place.”