And, at once, he saw Dromore's eyes probing, questioning:
“You married?”
“Yes.”
“Never thought of you as married!”
So Dromore did think of him. Queer! He never thought of Johnny Dromore.
“Winter's bally awful, when you're not huntin'. You've changed a lot; should hardly have known you. Last time I saw you, you'd just come back from Rome or somewhere. What's it like bein' a—a sculptor? Saw something of yours once. Ever do things of horses?”
Yes; he had done a 'relief' of ponies only last year.
“You do women, too, I s'pose?”
“Not often.”
The eyes goggled slightly. Quaint, that unholy interest! Just like boys, the Johnny Dromores—would never grow up, no matter how life treated them. If Dromore spoke out his soul, as he used to speak it out at 'Bambury's,' he would say: 'You get a pull there; you have a bally good time, I expect.' That was the way it took them; just a converse manifestation of the very same feeling towards Art that the pious Philistines had, with their deploring eyebrows and their 'peril to the soul.' Babes all! Not a glimmering of what Art meant—of its effort, and its yearnings!