"Thirteen!" cried Ann Wilde; "how horrible!" "Then you don't encourage building," commented Bradley; "and Mr. Atwater wouldn't encourage young men to go into architecture."
"As engineers, not as architects," replied Atwater. "Or shall I say—as constructionists?"
"Good word," murmured Ingles.
"Thanks. I've got fifteen draughtsmen up under the roof of the Clifton. When a new one comes, I say, 'My dear boy, go in for mining or dredging, or build bridges, or put up railway sheds, if you must; but don't go on believing that architecture nowadays has any great place for the artist. There won't be another Fair until long after you are dead and gone.'"
"I think I've had one of your young men with me lately," Bradley said. "He told us that he had been designing labels out at the Stock Yards, but had been in your office before that. Art may cover a wide range, you see," he said, laughing.
"Yes? What is his name?"
"Brainard, I think. He was a dark young fellow. He looked a little dissipated, it seemed to me."
"That's the one," said Atwater. "Now there's a case. That boy's father has treated him shamefully. He might have been made something of. He had a decided taste for drawing, and hardly any other. I won't say he had any great ability, but that wouldn't have mattered so much with training. However, he had no training to speak of, and we couldn't use him. He hasn't got the slightest faculty for business; they wouldn't have made a teller out of him in twenty years. But that was what they tried to do, and when it failed—"
Fairchild gave a delicate little cough.
"You don't have to listen, Fairchild," said Atwater. "Neither does Mr. Pratt, unless he chooses."