Bruce was sorry that he had stumbled into the thing. Mills was sincerely curious; it was something of an event to hear first-hand of such an experience. His questions were well put and required careful answers. Bruce found himself anxious to appear well in Mills’s eyes. But Mills was leading toward something. He was commenting now on the opportunities open to young men of ability in the business world, with Bruce’s experiences as a text.
“A professional man is circumscribed. There’s a limit to his earning power. Most men in the professions haven’t the knack of making money. They’re usually unwise in the investments they make of their savings.”
“But they have the joy of their work,” Bruce replied quickly. “We can’t measure their success just by their income.”
“Oh, I grant you that! But many of the doors of prosperity and happiness are denied them.”
“But others are open! Think of the sense of service a physician must feel in helping and saving. And even a puttering architect who can’t create masterpieces has the fun of doing his small jobs well. He lives the life he wants to live. There are painters and musicians who know they can never reach the high places; but they live the life! They starve and are happy!”
Bruce bent forward eagerly, the enthusiasm bright in his eyes. He had not before addressed Mills with so much assurance. The man was a materialist; his standards were fixed in dollars. It was because he reckoned life in false terms that Shepherd was afraid of him.
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me! I realize the diversity of talents that are handed out to us poor mortals. But if you were tempted to become a painter, say, and you knew you would never be better than second-rate, and at the same time you were pretty sure you could succeed in some business and live comfortably—travel, push into the big world currents and be a man of mark—what would you do?”
“Your question isn’t fair, because it’s not in the design of things for us to see very far ahead. But I’ll answer! If I had a real urge to paint I’d go to it and take my chance.”
“That’s a fine spirit, Storrs; and I believe you mean it. But——”
Mills rose and, thrusting his hands into his trousers’ pockets, walked across the room, his head bent, and then swung round, took the cigar from his lips and regarded the ash fixedly.