“Dear me. There’s quite a mystic feeling about it. Isn’t that the right phrase? Do you know, I’m seriously thinking of becoming an art critic. Yes, really! As I told you, I’ve had my fill of travelling, and now I’m going to try and settle down here, and I rather like getting a reputation for something or other. It makes real woman more interested in one. The only thing I’m afraid of is, I know too much about the subject, and have actually handled the brush. I’m going to paint, too, but I’ve neglected to keep my hand in, so I’ve not much hopes of that. Unless I came out as a stylist, who sees the world as he fails to paint it. You’ve got several new men like that, I hear. There’s money in myopia and diseases of the eye generally. And per Dio! how photography has come along since I was one of the pioneers of its use in art!”
Matthew Strang shrugged his shoulders.
“What does it matter?” he said, wearily. “The whole thing’s a farce.”
“Here, I say, must I play another gypsy dance? I came here expecting to find you a harmony in gold, and lo! you’re a discord in the blues. What’s the matter with you? You’re jealous of Cornpepper. How is it they haven’t made you an A.R.A. yet? Don’t you go out enough?”
The painter’s lips essayed a melancholy smile.
“I go out all I want to.”
“There are enough cards stuck over your mantel.”
“Yes, I have to go out a good deal in the season. It doesn’t pay to offend patrons.”
“Or Ideal Womanhood. I reckon you’ll be making a fine marriage one of these days when you’re an A.R.A., as you must be. Lady Bettina Modish, or something of that sort, eh?”
“Won’t you have another cigarette?” said the painter, jerkily.