Dawney lit a cigarette.
“You painters,” he said, “are better off than most of us. You can strike out your own line. Now if I choose to treat a case out of the ordinary way and the patient dies, I'm ruined.”
“My dear Doctor—if I don't paint what the public likes, I starve; all the same I'm going to paint in my own way; in the end I shall come out on top.”
“It pays to work in the groove, my friend, until you've made your name; after that—do what you like, they'll lick your boots all the same.”
“Ah, you don't love your work.”
Dawney answered slowly: “Never so happy as when my hands are full. But I want to make money, to get known, to have a good time, good cigars, good wine. I hate discomfort. No, my boy, I must work it on the usual lines; I don't like it, but I must lump it. One starts in life with some notion of the ideal—it's gone by the board with me. I've got to shove along until I've made my name, and then, my little man—then—”
“Then you'll be soft!”
“You pay dearly for that first period!”
“Take my chance of that; there's no other way.”
“Make one!”