"Yes, it is."
"Are you perfectly sure? Are you perfectly sure that 'tisn't I—my presence here—?"
"You?" Max withered him with a scorn meant for himself as well. "You rate yourself high, my friend, and you imagine my work a very trivial thing!"
"Nonsense! Plenty of artists must have solitude."
"Plenty of fools! An artist is engrossed in his art so perfectly that when he stands before his canvas no world exists but the world of his imagination. Do you suppose me to be affected because you sit somewhere in the background, smoking over the fire? Oh, no! I trust I have more capacity to concentrate!"
He shrugged his shoulders to the ears; he raised his eyebrows in the very elaboration of indifference.
Blake, hot as he in pride or anger, caught sudden fire.
"Upon my soul, you're damned complimentary! I think, if you have no objection, I'll be wishing you good-day!" He picked up his hat, and strode to the door.
