"You silly! Art has always been parasitic,—why shouldn't the young man go to pleasant people's houses and have a good time and be agreeable and get them to buy his pictures?"
"Isabelle, you have fallen into the bad habit of echoing phrases. 'Art has always been parasitic.' That's the second commonplace of the drawing-room you have got off this morning."
"Come over here and tell me something…. I can't quarrel with you,
Dickie!" Isabelle said, leading the way to a secluded bench.
"If I were not modest, I should say you were flirting with me."
"I never flirt with any man; I am known as the Saint, the Puritan,—I might try it, but I couldn't—with you…. Tell me about Vick. Have you seen him?"
"Yes," Fosdick replied gravely. "I ran across him in Venice."
"How was he?"
"He looked well, has grown rather stout…. The first time I saw him was on the Grand Canal; met him in a smart gondola, with men all togged out, no end of a get-up!"
"You saw them both?"
"Of course,—I looked him up at once. They have an old place on the Giudecca, you know. I spent a week with them. He's still working on the opera,—it doesn't get on very fast, I gather. He played me some of the music,—it's great, parts of it. And he has written other things."