He did not tell her that he was sick and tired of the jargon of art for art’s sake, literature for literature’s sake. He did not tell that--practical man of the world that he was--he had no faith in literary art; that he believed the power of writing to be a gift and nothing else; that the chief art in literature is that which is unconscious of itself.
“Do you feel within yourself the makings of a great author?”
Eve laughed, a sudden girlish laugh, which made John Craik reduce his estimate of her age by five years.
“No,” she answered.
He sat up and looked at her with a kind admiration.
“You are refreshing,” he said, “very, especially to a man who has seen stout and elderly females sit in that same chair and state their conviction that they were destined to be George Eliots or Charlotte Brontës, women who had written one improper or irreligious novel, which had obtained a certain success in the foolish circles.”
“Do you think I have,” asked Eve, “the--the makings of an income?”
John Craik reflected.
“A small one,” he said bluntly.
“That is all I want.”