“Why don’t you just stick to me?” asked Mendel. “What more do you want? Why must you always go off on a new track? First it’s Hetty Finch, then it’s Morrison, and now it’s this new man. We were happy enough by ourselves. Why do you want anything more? I don’t.”
“You’re used to living on dry bread. I’m not. I want butter with mine, and jam, if I can get it.”
“Then get it and don’t bother me to go chasing after it. I want to work.”
“Oh, rot! All that stuff about artists starving in garrets is out of date. It only happened because they couldn’t find patrons, but nowadays there are dealers and buyers. . . . Just look at the money you are making.”
“Then why is this Logan poor?”
“He isn’t known yet. He doesn’t know the artists because he never went to a London school. He was doing quite well in the North, but threw it all up because he couldn’t stand living in such a filthy town. He had a teaching job somewhere in Hammersmith, but he threw that up because he wanted his time to himself.”
“That sounds as if painting means something to him.”
“Do come and see him.”
“Oh! very well.”
“I’ll send him a wire and we’ll go to-night.”