“I am only an amateur,” he said; “an idle man, nothing more—and you?”
“Alas! I am a doctor.”
“Then we shall not have to answer to each other for our sins in painting.”
We talked on pleasantly until our bodily wants were satisfied. Then came that pleasant craving for tobacco, which after a good meal, is natural to a well-regulated digestion.
“Shall we go and smoke outside?” said Carriston. “The night is delicious.”
We went out and sat on one of the wooden benches. As my new friend said, the night was delicious. There was scarcely a breath of air moving. The stars and the moon shone brightly, and the rush of the not far distant stream came to us with a soothing murmur. Near us were three or four jovial young artists. They were in merry mood; one of them had that day sold a picture to a tourist. We listened to their banter until, most likely growing thirsty, they re-entered the inn.
Carriston had said little since we had been out of doors. He smoked his cigar placidly and gazed up at the skies. With the white moonlight falling on his strikingly-beautiful face—the graceful pose into which he fell—he seemed to me the embodiment of poetry. He paid no heed to the merry talk or the artists, which so much amused me—indeed, I doubted if he heard their voices.
Yet he must have done so, for as soon as they had left us he came out of his reverie.
“It must be very nice,” he said, “to have to make one’s living by Art.”