"People prate about giving the world what the world wants. An artist gives what's in him to give. I say that nothing else is possible, whether the world likes it or whether it doesn't. And, luckily, the world that buys pictures and books is catholic in its tastes. All the same, just at present there is a big demand for stuff which is signed. You know what I mean. The crowd clamours for individuality. I was standing in front of a picture of mine at the Academy last year, and a cleverish-looking girl said: 'That's a Pynsent. I like his work because I always know it, not because I understand it.' I nearly asked her to shake hands. It's the same with books. There's an immense quantity of well-written, interesting novels published every year, but you'll find that the few which sell are stamped on every page with the author's name. The brand does it, first and last."
"I only read books that amuse me," said Jim.
"You're a man. Men read books sometimes, but women buy them. Let's hope that Mark's stuff will please the women. Then he will arrive."
While they were talking, a young man passed through the gate and up the garden to the cottage door.
"Hullo! Who's this?" said Pynsent.
Mary answered the question by coming out of the house in a becoming frock and hat and joining the young man. Together they strolled down the path. The three men stared at each other. It had not occurred to any of them that Mary might have a young man. And this particular one seemed to be the typical young man, always seen of a Sunday arm-in-arm with a pretty girl: commonplace, smug, self-assured. While they looked Mrs. Dew's thin querulous voice filtered through the sunlit space of the garden—
"Mary, Mary—don't be away too long!"
Mary's fresh voice came from behind the palings—
"Of course not, mother. I shall be back to make your tea at four."
"Our Jill has her Jack," said Pynsent. "That was a becoming hat."