“I’m an old idiot—my place isn’t there,” St. George stated gravely.
“I’m nothing yet, I’ve no fortune; and there must be so many others,” his companion pursued.
The Master took this considerably in, but made little of it. “You’re a gentleman and a man of genius. I think you might do something.”
“But if I must give that up—the genius?”
“Lots of people, you know, think I’ve kept mine,” St. George wonderfully grinned.
“You’ve a genius for mystification!” Paul declared; but grasping his hand gratefully in attenuation of this judgement.
“Poor dear boy, I do worry you! But try, try, all the same. I think your chances are good and you’ll win a great prize.”
Paul held fast the other’s hand a minute; he looked into the strange deep face. “No, I am an artist—I can’t help it!”
“Ah show it then!” St. George pleadingly broke out. “Let me see before I die the thing I most want, the thing I yearn for: a life in which the passion—ours—is really intense. If you can be rare don’t fail of it! Think what it is—how it counts—how it lives!”
They had moved to the door and he had closed both his hands over his companion’s. Here they paused again and our hero breathed deep. “I want to live!”