“Oh, making pictures of things,” he said, intensely amused.
“Pictures? You don’t talk about art, and you paint pictures!”
“Yes.”
“W—what kind? Do you mind my asking? You are so—so very unusual.”
“Well, to earn my living, I make full-page pictures for magazines; to satisfy an absurd desire, I paint people—things—anything that might satisfy my color senses.” He shrugged his shoulders gaily. “You see, I’m the sort you are so tired of——”
“But you paint! The artists I know don’t paint—except that way—” She raised her pretty gloved thumb and made a gesture in the air; and, before she had achieved it, they were both convulsed with laughter.
“You never do that, do you?” she asked at length.
“No, I never do. I can’t afford to decorate the atmosphere for nothing!”
“Then—then you are not interested in art nouveau?”
“No; and I never could see that beautiful music resembled frozen architecture.”