“What,” he cried, “what does a work of art more or less matter? You can’t expect the rest of us to live in filthiness so that you may paint pictures of a beauty that is never seen.”
To have stung René into a hot fury seemed to appease the artist somewhat. He grunted and said:
“In a way you’re right, and honestly I don’t care a hang about the picture. I can paint it again and better. But I thought I was going to make some money with it, enough to get out of this forever, and it is almost more than I can bear to know that the harm has come through you. It doesn’t matter. I’ll paint it again. I’ll get the fierce little spark of intelligence burning in Eve. I’d left that out. I’ll paint her feeling half confident of her superiority to both God and Adam, and ashamed of having to submit to their fatuous pretense of creation, their old theatrical trick. Art and religion! They stink of the harem and aphrodisiacs, the abominable East, the gods of lust and self-mortification. What has your trumpery idealism to say to that?”
He flung the tattered remains of the picture on the fire and held it down. The flames consumed the paint greedily and roared in the chimney.
“So much for that,” said Kilner. “Finished! I’ll start again to-morrow. Let’s go and see your little vixen and annoy her by showing that she hasn’t hurt us in the least.”
“That’s vindictive.”
“Ho! Have you turned Christian?”
“I’m not going to have Ann moithered.”
“And why not? She must learn her lesson.”
“Let me find out why she did it first.”