“Who’s everybody?” Tarmigan inquired, bitterly. “Society doesn’t say so, for I don’t go to its drawing-rooms; the R.A.’s don’t say so, for I’m unknown to their wives. But I am unjust. Let us drop the subject. After all, a man’s work stands, even if he is passed over in his lifetime.”
Matt felt a sharp pang of sympathy for this strong, stern man sustained by the false dream of immortality. He could not conceive that posterity would care a rap for Tarmigan’s cold classic pictures. Indeed, now that he had assimilated all that was good in Tarmigan’s teaching, he only went to the studio for the sake of the model and the practice. Emotion and embarrassment kept him silent.
“Do you live with your people?” Tarmigan asked, presently, in an interested tone.
“No,” said Matt; “they are in America.”
“Oh, ah, yes; so you told me. You’re not married?”
“No.”
“Nor engaged, I hope?”
“No,” said Matt, wonderingly.
“That’s right. No artist should marry. His wife is sure to drag him down to sacrifice his Art to her pleasures and wants. Fine feathers and fine houses are ruining English Art. I warn you of this, because you have the makings of an artist if you work hard.”
“You are very kind, sir,” said Matt, touched.