"That's what I mean when I say he's not an artist. However, he declares he does like it, only it appears to be not the right thing for him. Oh the right thing—he's ravenous for that. But it's not for me to blame him, since I am too. He's coming some night, however. Then," she added almost grimly, "he shall have a dose."
"Poor Peter!" Nick returned with a compassion none the less real because it was mirthful: the girl's tone was so expressive of easy unscrupulous power.
"He's such a curious mixture," she luxuriously went on; "sometimes I quite lose patience with him. It isn't exactly trying to serve both God and Mammon, but it's muddling up the stage and the world. The world be hanged! The stage, or anything of that sort—I mean one's artistic conscience, one's true faith—comes first."
"Brava, brava! you do me good," Nick murmured, still amused, beguiled, and at work. "But it's very kind of you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment.
"Yes, I confess I don't quite see—when the shops were full of my photographs."
"Oh I'm so poor—I don't go into shops," he explained.
"Are you very poor?"
"I live on alms."
"And don't they pay you—the government, the ministry?"
"Dear young lady, for what?—for shutting myself up with beautiful women?"