“Oh! you mean to be an artist?”
“Perhaps, Sir.”
“Phit! phit! Don’t do any such silly thing, Sir. An artist! Why how much does an artist make in a year?”
“Well, Sir, the money I don’t know about, but the fame!”
“Oh! the fame! The fiddle, Sir! You are capable of better things.”
“For instance, Mr. Burt—”
“Trade, Sir, trade—trade. That is the way to fortune in this country. Enterprise, activity, shrewdness, industry, that’s what a young man wants. Get rid of your fol-de-rol notions about art. Benjamin West was a great man, Sir; but he was an exception, and besides he lived in England. I respect Benjamin West, Sir, of course. We all do. He made a good thing of it. Take the word of an old man who has seen life and knows the world, and remember that, with all your fine fiddling, it is money makes the mare go. Old men like me don’t mince matters, Sir. It’s money—money!”
Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, but he did not say so. He only looked respectful, and said, “Yes, Sir.”
“About drawing the house, come when you choose,” said Mr. Burt, rising.
“It may take more than one, or even three or four afternoons, Sir, to do it properly.”