“Shan’t.”
“Leave the room. I want to talk to Kühler.”
“Talk away then. I shan’t listen.”
Logan walked over to her, seized her by the arms, and pushed her into the bedroom and locked the door. It was done very quickly and dexterously, as though it were a practised manœuvre.
“I’m finding out how to treat her,” he said. “Quiet firmness does the trick.”
He met Mendel’s eyes fixed on him in horrified inquiry and turned sharply away.
“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said. “The fact is, women aren’t fit for liberty and an artist ought to have nothing to do with them. But what can a man do? . . . What were we talking about?”
“Cluny.”
“Oh yes! He wants the exhibition to be the first fortnight in November. Can you be ready by then? It must be a turning-point in art, the beginning of big things. I know myself enough to realize that it is doubtful if I shall ever be a great creative artist, but I shall be the Napoleon of the new movement—the soldier and the organizer of the revolution in art. And it won’t be confined to art; it will spread through everything. Art will be the central international republic from which the commonwealths which will take the place of the present vulgar capitalistic nations will be inspired. What do you think of that for an idea?”