“Oh, not self-satisfied! That is intellectual death.”
“There are other kinds of death,” said Clare. “Moral death.”
Madge Vernon raised her eyebrows.
“We must buck up and do things. That’s the law of life.”
“I have nothing to do,” said Clare, in a pitiful way.
“How strange! I have such a million things to do. My days aren’t long enough. I am always pottering about with one thing or another.”
“What kind of things?” asked Clare wistfully.
Madge Vernon gave her a cheerful little laugh.
“For one thing, it’s a great joke having to earn one’s own living. The excitement of never knowing whether one can afford the next day’s meal! The joy of painting pictures—which the Royal Academy will inevitably reject. The horrible delight of burning them when they are rejected.... Besides, I am a public character, I am.”
“Are you? How?” asked Clare.