"Then tell me if there's anything in this. What guarantee have you that exactly the same thing won't happen to you again? Take the maddest view of all—that you actually might go forward. If indications are anything you're repeating your experiences already."
"How so?" he demanded.
"In this painting of yours. I heard your explanations to Mrs Aird this afternoon. You're starting with exactly the same ideas as before—complete dissociation from everything else that's ever been done. You're going to be the First Man again instead of the Millionth Man. How do you know it won't land you in the same mess? It used to be words; now it's paint, and that's all the difference I see."
There was a long pause; then I heard his soft, almost indulgent laugh.
"Look here, George," he said slowly. "I'll make you a fair offer. Can't you and I come to terms if I swear to you that I'll never touch another canvas or brush or pen or sheet of paper as long as I live? Will that satisfy you?"
"I'm afraid not."
"But doesn't that meet your objection, old fellow?"
"No. Because you'd be the same man whether you wrote or painted or not!"
"But how on earth can I alter that?"
I seized on his words. "Exactly. That's my whole meaning. You can't alter it. Whether you do the same or not, you are the same. For all I know you'll go on being it till the crack of doom. It's yourself that's been visited, not your books. And that's why things can't go on between you and Jennie Aird."