"But—"
"I tell you nothing interests me except Art!" he yelled. "Don't dispute it! Don't answer me! Don't irritate me! I don't care whether anything lives in the fire or not! Let it live there!"
"But have you actually seen live creatures in the flames?"
"Plenty! Plenty! What of it? What about it? Let 'em live there, for all I care. I've painted pictures of 'em, too. That's all that interests me."
"What do they look like, Mr. Blythe?"
"Look like? I don't know! They look like weasels or rats or bats or cats or—stop asking me questions! It irritates me! It depresses me! Don't ask any more! Why don't you go in to lunch? And—tell my daughter to bring me a bowl of salad out here. I've no time to stuff myself. Some people have. I haven't. You'd better go in to lunch.... And tell my daughter to bring me seven tubes of Chinese vermilion with my salad!"
"You don't mean to mix—" I began, then checked myself before his fury.
"I'd rather eat vermilion paint on my salad than sit here talking to you!" he shouted.
I cast a pitying glance at this impossible man, and went into the house. After all, he was her father. I had to endure him.