“Well, you are not above trying for it, old man,” said he. “And it’s a mighty sight easier to be unknown.”
Aubrey yawned:
“I seek nothing from popularity,” he said.
“Then why do you print yourself?” asked Rippley.
“I am in love with art.... I have the perplexing preference for the elements of inspiration rather than for the elements of popularity.”
Rippley snorted:
“Oh—go to sleep!” said he.
Aubrey turned to Emma Hartroff apologetically:
“I’m sorry,” he murmured drowsily, “but I have been wandering in the meads by running streams all day, and it has only made me sleepy. I had done better to have invented my own facts in Nature—Nature does not select—like the good God, she is most wasteful.”
Emma Hartroff jumped to her feet, and strode up and down a turn or so, her hands in her pockets. She came to a halt, and straddling in the middle of the room, she said suddenly: