"Good God, Madeleine" burst out Krafft. "That you should have been in this place as long as you have, and still remain so immaculate!—Surely you realise that something more than talent and perseverance is necessary? One can have talent as one has a hat ... use it or not as one likes.—I tell you, the mill Guest is going through may be his salvation—artistically."
"And morally?" asked Madeleine, not without bitterness. "Must one give thanks then, if one's friend doesn't turn out a genius?"
Krafft shrugged his shoulders. "As you take it. The artist has as much to do with morality, as, let us say, your musical festivals have to do with art.—And if his genius isn't strong enough to float him, he goes under, UND DAMIT BASTA! The better for art. There are bunglers enough.—But I'll tell you this," he rose on his elbow again, and spoke more warmly. "Since I've seen what our friend is capable of; how he has allowed himself to be absorbed; since, in short, he has behaved In such a highly un-British way—well, since then, I have some hope of him. He seems open to impression.—And impressions are the only things that matter to the artist."
"Oh, don't go on, please! I'm sick to death of the very words art and artist."
"Cheer up, Mada! You've nothing of the kind in your blood." He stretched himself and yawned. "Nor has he, either, I believe. A face may deceive. And a clear head, and unlimited perseverance, and intelligence, and ambition—none of these things is enough. The Lord asks more of his chosen."
Madeleine clasped her hands behind her head, and tilted back her chair.
"So you couldn't interfere, I see? Your artistic conscience would forbid it."
"Why don't you do it yourself?" He scrutinised her face, with a sarcastic smile.
"Oh, say it out! I know what you think."
"And am I not right?"