“We have different views about things, Barney. That would seem to me the worst form of dependence. It is very generous of you, but utterly impracticable; besides, you haven’t thought of the danger of my becoming a mere copyist of you—a shadow of the new individualist. I couldn’t risk that, you know.”
“Better become the shadow of one man, than a shadow of many, which you are now.”
“Perhaps; but we each must hoe our own row in our own way. Good-by, Barney.”
Haldiman went down-stairs, not cheered as much as might have been expected by Hope’s overflowing good nature and generosity. He met Barney’s mother on the stairs, who gave him a head-to-foot glance of evident disapproval. She did not admire the set with whom her son had thrown in his lot, and feared their influence on him would not be beneficial.
“Oh, mater!” cried Barney, when she entered. “I did not expect you to-day. How did you find the place?”
His mother raised her lorgnette to her eyes and surveyed the room in silence.
“So this is the studio, Barnard,” she said, at last. “I don’t think much of it. Why is it all untidy like this?—or haven’t you had time to get it in order yet?”
“This is the kind of thing we artists go in for, mater. It is as much in order as it ever will be.”
“Then I don’t like it. Why could you not have had a man in to lay one carpet as it should be laid? These rugs, all scattered about in this careless way, trip one up so. What’s this old iron for?”
“That’s armour, mater.”