"Yes. . . . Very pretty, your poems, very pretty. . . . Only, do you reckon upon being able to live on what they will bring you?"
"Certainly . . . sooner or later. . . ."
"Sooner or later? Later rather than sooner, I expect! And, meantime, you have come to ask me for the wherewithal to live?"
"For the wherewithal to buy food, sir."
Sernine put his hand on the young man's shoulder and, coldly:
"Poets do not need food, monsieur. They live on rhymes and dreams. Do as they do. That is better than begging for bread."
The young man quivered under the insult. He turned to the door without a word.
Sernine stopped him:
"One thing more, monsieur. Have you no resources of any kind?"
"None at all."