“You do much more—when you wear that expression.”
“Well, after all, why try to be an artist?” the young man pursued. “It’s so poor—so poor!”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Miss Fancourt, who looked grave.
“I mean as compared with being a person of action—as living your works.”
“But what’s art but an intense life—if it be real?” she asked. “I think it’s the only one—everything else is so clumsy!” Her companion laughed, and she brought out with her charming serenity what next struck her. “It’s so interesting to meet so many celebrated people.”
“So I should think—but surely it isn’t new to you.”
“Why I’ve never seen any one—any one: living always in Asia.”
The way she talked of Asia somehow enchanted him. “But doesn’t that continent swarm with great figures? Haven’t you administered provinces in India and had captive rajahs and tributary princes chained to your car?”
It was as if she didn’t care even should he amuse himself at her cost. “I was with my father, after I left school to go out there. It was delightful being with him—we’re alone together in the world, he and I—but there was none of the society I like best. One never heard of a picture—never of a book, except bad ones.”
“Never of a picture? Why, wasn’t all life a picture?”