“In its simplicity,” returned Corin promptly. “Whoever painted this worked for pure pleasure. There’s—well, there’s so extraordinarily little hint of even the thought of an audience. Do you know what I mean?”
“Isn’t it,” she said laughing, “the entire expression of ‘when the world was so new and all’?”
“Exactly!” cried Corin. “In those eight little words Kipling carried us back into a clean fresh world with its face all washed and smiling; when we laughed for the mere joy of laughter; when we wept if we wanted to weep—only I believe we didn’t want to; when the tiresome stupid phrases ‘What will people think? What will people say?’ were unknown in the language; when we danced, and ate, and played in the sunshine for the mere joy of living.”
“Only that?” she queried, her eyebrows raised.
“Only that,” said Corin firmly. “Kipling is a glorious pagan.”
“Oh!” She was dubious. “I wonder.”
“And this painter,” pursued Corin unheeding, “splashed his colours on the walls, his blacks, his reds, his blues, his lines and curves, and he laughed as he worked, and I think he sang too, and he didn’t care one jot what people thought about him or his painting. He loved it, and so—” He broke off with a gesture.
“But,” quoth she demurely, “I suppose you don’t intend to infer that he was a pagan?”
“Oh, you can call him what you like,” returned Corin magnanimously, “I only know that his mind was as untrammelled as his work.”
“I see.” She shot him a little quizzical glance.