“I used to read silly stuff once,” I confessed, “Indian tales and that sort of thing, you know. But mamma said I'd never be able to write if I read that rubbish.”
“You will find it so all through life, Paul,” he replied. “The things that are nice are rarely good for us. And what do you read now?”
“I am reading Marlowe's Plays and De Quincey's Confessions just now,” I confided to him.
“And do you understand them?”
“Fairly well,” I answered. “Mamma says I'll like them better as I go on. I want to learn to write very, very well indeed,” I admitted to him; “then I'll be able to earn heaps of money.”
He smiled. “So you don't believe in Art for Art's sake, Paul?”
I was puzzled. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means in our case, Paul,” he answered, “writing books for the pleasure of writing books, without thinking of any reward, without desiring either money or fame.”
It was a new idea to me. “Do many authors do that?” I asked.
He laughed outright this time. It was a delightful laugh. It rang through the quiet Park, awaking echoes; and caught by it, I laughed with him.