"Indeed, I claim nothing of the kind," he replied, laughing. "Art may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assured that the artist never thinks of his work in that way."
"You make no claim, then, even of usefulness?"
"Most decidedly, none. You little imagine how distasteful the word is to me in such connection."
"Then how can you say you are employing your best natural powers?"
She had fallen to ingenuous surprise, and Mallard again laughed, partly at the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased him to have brought her to such directness.
"Because," he answered, "this work gives me keener and more lasting pleasure than any other would. And I am not a man easily pleased with my own endeavours, Mrs. Baske. I work with little or no hope of ever satisfying myself—that is another thing. I have heard men speak of my kind of art as 'the noble pursuit of Truth,' and so on. I don't care for such phrases; they may mean something, but as a rule come of the very spirit so opposed to my own—that which feels it necessary to justify art by bombast. The one object I have in life is to paint a bit of the world just as I see it. I exhaust myself in vain toil; I shall never succeed; but I am right to persevere, I am right to go on pleasing myself."
Miriam listened in astonishment.
"With such views, Mr. Mallard, it is fortunate that you happen to find pleasure in painting pictures."
"Which, at all events, do people no harm."
She turned upon him suddenly.