Yung. Because you painted it out!
Olang. It no longer concerns you! In future you will please to let it alone. [Pockets it.
Yung. You always disliked me, father!
Olang. I didn’t always dislike you! How dare you say that? I dislike your manners—who wouldn’t? I dislike your appearance, I dislike your tastes, and I dislike your character.... More than that I—I—don’t say.
Yung. [Whimpering.] He’s taken my certificate!
Mrs. O. What have you taken his certificate for? Let him have it, if it amuses him!
Yung. [Whimpering still.] It was red: it had white letters on it, and it said——
Olang. My dear, do you not know that in this country for a grocer to be also an artist is illegal? and can you not see that if you allow him always to go fancying himself a grocer he will never become a painter?
Yung. [Sobbing.] It said——
Mrs. O. No, I can’t; there’s no sense in it! You are always saying what Art wants is imagination. Well—let him practise imagining himself a grocer.