“The art of Monsieur, however,” said Elvira, breaking the silence, “is not wanting in distinction.”
“It has this distinction,” said the wife, “that nobody will buy it.”
“I should have supposed a clerkship—” began Stubbs.
“Art is Art,” swept in Léon. “I salute Art. It is the beautiful, the divine; it is the spirit of the world, and the pride of life. But—” And the actor paused.
“A clerkship—” began Stubbs.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the painter. “I am an artist, and as this gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course, if my wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition all day long, I prefer to go and drown myself out of hand.”
“Go!” said his wife. “I should like to see you!”
“I was going to say,” resumed Stubbs, “that a fellow may be a clerk and paint almost as much as he likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makes capital water-colour sketches; he even sold one for seven-and-six.”
To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; each hopefully interrogated the countenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artist herself!—but indeed there must be something permanently mercantile in the female nature. The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; not otherwise might two philosophers salute, as at the end of a laborious life each recognised that he was still a mystery to his disciples.
Léon arose.