He stood off, and, head on one side, looked at the youth’s clean-shaven face with the air of an artist.
“Mind ye, sorr,” said he, damping the soap off his face—“I’m not blamin’ the poets. That’s a queer onnatural life they lead. Mr. Myre, that was in here just now, was complainin’ to another genius of the damn hard life of it he had, what wid the sinfulness of his natural nature, and his emotions, and the doing of things that wasn’t expected of him, and all the celebrated women after him—but now, there’s a man that stands to his principles like a hairy Afghan to his fowlin’-piece—he was sayin’ that an artist must have lived—and it is a part of his sacrifice to himself that he should debauch himself for the good of posterity, otherwise he only guesses at life like the maiden aunt lookin’ furtively over the window blind at the drama of the street. Begod, it’s the keen satirical tongue he has, Mr. Myre, when he’s pullin’ the leg of the maiden aunt.... And the self-respect av him!”...
CHAPTER XXI
Which discovers a Great Man in the Hour of his Triumph
Mr. Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre stood at the windows of the best rooms of the best hotel in London—he enjoyed the fine view, the great reach of the Thames—the towers and ancient majestic piles and many-windowed warehouses turning to fairy palaces in the lilac haze of the coming twilight.
The great actress’s infatuation for him brought him his every desire in these days; and he felt that such was as it should be—it was pathetic to think of the number of common-minded persons who must have lived in that room and seen no beauty in the world. Nay, it was a crime. He sighed that Nature was so wasteful.
He stood, his hands behind his back, his colourless hair with its untidy forelock over his paste-coloured forehead, a smirk under his drooping, ill-kempt moustache. His sloping shoulders shrugged content:
“God!” said he—“this is my day.”