Ascher opened his eyes and looked at Gorman with a mild kind of wonder.
“Of course,” he said, “I can never be an artist. I haven’t got the temperament, the soul, the capacity for abandon. But I might find enjoyment, the highest pleasure, in understanding, in appreciating, perhaps even in encouraging——”
“Sort of Mecenas,” said Gorman. “I wonder if Mecenas was a banker. He seems to have been a rich man.”
“He was a descendant of kings,” I said, “but that’s no reason why he shouldn’t have made money.”
“Anyhow,” said Gorman, “you’d find art just as dull as banking if you went in for it systematically.”
“But artists——!” said Ascher, “genuine artists! Men with inspiration!”
“Selfish conceited swine,” said Gorman.
“Well,” I said, “you ought to know. You’re an artist yourself. Ascher told me so yesterday.”
“I remember your two novels,” said Ascher, “and I recognised in them the touch, the unmistakable touch.”
“Let’s go down to lunch,” said Gorman.