“Since this morning, if you like. The ‘when’ doesn’t matter. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m wasting my existence. You’ll scoff, of course, but I know I have genius—not talent, mind, but genius. There’s no use of making any bones about it, or pretending false modesty: if a man is a genius, he knows it. Very well, then, why not say so?”
“I see no reason against it.”
“Quite so. Now, Haldiman, how much money do you make in a year?”
“You mean, how little?”
“Put it any way you like. Name the figure.”
“What’s that got to do with your genius?”
“Never you mind. What’s the amount?”
“Now, Barney, if you’re cooking up some new kind of financial insult, I give you fair warning I won’t stand it.”
Barney had gulped down his stimulant, and now paced up and down the room, clearing a track for himself by kicking things out of the way. Haldiman sat in a deep armchair, his legs stretched out, and his hands in his pockets, watching his friend’s energetic march to and fro.
“The artistic profession,” cried the pedestrian, “has been held up to the scorn of the world since painting began. Read any novel, and you will see that, if the heroine is to make a doocedly bad marriage, she invariably falls in love with an artist—invariably.”