“A very brilliant woman,” I said, beginning with the obvious.
“I guess there’s not much use disputing that fact,” she answered with an expression which conveyed to me that this remark was intended as grim humour. “And if she were not, she’s clever enough to make people think so.”
“Do you admire that particular form of brilliancy?” I asked, longing to hear her say what I thought; but she answered emphatically:
“I admire success. When you strive for that and get it you’re entitled to all the applause there is, whether it is the brand some one else would strike out for or not. I have succeeded in my way and she acknowledges it and me; therefore, I take off my hat to her. I have aimed for something more solid; but because I prefer to spend my money on oil paintings there is no law against my patting the dainty water-colourist on the back. And I do—every time. So long as a person does not get in my way he can have a whole road to himself and welcome.”
Here was genuine frankness, no doubt of that. She prided herself upon it and was quite aware that she was impressing me, but it was the sort of insolent frankness that compels belief. I asked her if she was not the author of ——[A] which I had read recently, and she thawed perceptibly and even gave me a very charming smile. To draw her on I praised the novel highly—it was clever but sketchy and betrayed no knowledge of the world whatever—and she thanked me very pleasantly and admitted that she hoped to make an even greater success with her second one.
“I have had some very fortunate experiences since I wrote that,” she said. “I have watched a love affair progress right under my nose, and I was visiting a friend of mine when her husband was accidentally killed. She was a wonderful psychological study in her grief!” and she set her mouth, as if overcome by the responsibility of her own brain.
“Good God!” I exclaimed.
She turned slowly and gave me a look of such haughty inquiry that I almost wilted.
“I beg your pardon,” I said meekly, “but it seemed to me rather a shocking advantage to take. Really—how could you?”
“Of course, as you don’t write you don’t know that a true artist sees copy in everything, that human nature was made to be studied, and that when a palpitating leaf is torn out and flung into an author’s lap he would be seven different kinds of fool if he didn’t read it.”