"Wow!" said Ricketts, jingling his chips. "They're off."
"Everything has conformed to business, everything has been made to pay. Art is now a respectable career—to whom? To the business man. Why? Because a profession that is paid $3,000 to $5,000 a portrait is no longer an art, but a blamed good business. The man who cooks up his novel according to the weakness of his public sells a hundred thousand copies. Dime novel? No; published by our most conservative publishers—one of our leading citizens. He has found out that scribbling is a new field of business. He has convinced the business man. He has made it pay."
"Three cards," said Swazey's voice. "Well, Brocky, what's your remedy?"
"A smashing war every ten years," said Brockhurst shortly.
"Why, you bloody butcher," said Regan, who did not seize the idea, while from the card-table came the chorus:
"Hooray, Brocky, go it!"
"That's the way!"
"You're in fine form to-night!"
"And why a war?" said Pike, beginning to take notice.
"A war has two positive advantages," said Brockhurst. "It teaches discipline and obedience, which we profoundly need, and it holds up a great ideal, the ideal of heroism, of sacrifice for an ideal. In times of war young men such as we are are inspired by the figures of military leaders, and their imaginations are stirred to noble desires by the word 'country.' Nowadays what is held up to us? Go out—succeed—make money."