"What can that be?"
"Oh, Mark—religion!"
He leaned over the railing at her side, and the white and red roses that embraced the pillar shook against his thick dark hair in the infant breeze of evening.
"But there are many religions," he said. "A man's art may be his religion."
A troubled look came into her eyes and made them like her mother's.
"Oh no, Mark."
"Yes, Kitty," he said, with growing earnestness, putting aside his reserve for the first time with her. "Indeed it may."
"You mean when he uses it to do good?"
He shook his head. The roses shivered.
"The true artist never thinks of that. To have a definite moral purpose is destructive."