"It has been like a miracle, like spring. First the bare outlines; then came the trees, sky, earth; then branches, clouds, the grass; then a sweep of colour, soft as a May wind; then you did something to it that made it a place of mystery."
"Does it have all that for you, Jane?"
"Yes, and more. It has the proof of my belief in your power."
"Why do you hate the portraits so?"
"Because they are not you—they are things to sell. You are clever enough to make people look as they want to look, not as you know they are."
"Heavens, Jane, that would ruin us!"
"There, you've said it. We are prostituting your soul to pay our rent."
"It's just a crutch, Jane. I'll discard it as soon as I can. Don't take it too seriously."
"I can't help it. You see, I take the creative instinct seriously; it is our share of Godhood."
"I know, but all of us have to pot boil."