“Hasn’t he a passion, an affection, which includes all the rest? Besides, let him have all the passions he likes—if he only keeps his independence. He must be able to be poor.”
Paul slowly got up. “Why then did you advise me to make up to her?”
St. George laid his hand on his shoulder. “Because she’d make a splendid wife! And I hadn’t read you then.”
The young man had a strained smile. “I wish you had left me alone!”
“I didn’t know that that wasn’t good enough for you,” his host returned.
“What a false position, what a condemnation of the artist, that he’s a mere disfranchised monk and can produce his effect only by giving up personal happiness. What an arraignment of art!” Paul went on with a trembling voice.
“Ah you don’t imagine by chance that I’m defending art? ‘Arraignment’—I should think so! Happy the societies in which it hasn’t made its appearance, for from the moment it comes they have a consuming ache, they have an incurable corruption, in their breast. Most assuredly is the artist in a false position! But I thought we were taking him for granted. Pardon me,” St. George continued: “‘Ginistrella’ made me!”
Paul stood looking at the floor—one o’clock struck, in the stillness, from a neighbouring church-tower. “Do you think she’d ever look at me?” he put to his friend at last.
“Miss Fancourt—as a suitor? Why shouldn’t I think it? That’s why I’ve tried to favour you—I’ve had a little chance or two of bettering your opportunity.”
“Forgive my asking you, but do you mean by keeping away yourself?” Paul said with a blush.