"There is more art in facts than there are facts in art," he said.
"I don't quite know what you mean."
He didn't, either, when he came to analyse what he had said; and he turned very red and admitted it.
"I mean to be honest and truthful," he said. "What I just said sounded clever, but meant nothing. I admit it. I mean to be perfectly pitiless with myself. Anything tainted with imagination; anything hinting of romance; any weak concession to prejudice, convention, good taste, I refuse to be guilty of. Realism is what I aim at; raw facts, however unpleasant!"
"I don't believe you will find anything very unpleasant about me," she said.
"No, I don't think I shall. But I mean to[131] detect every imperfection, every weakness, every secret vanity, every unworthy impulse. That is why I desire to study you so implacably. Are you willing to submit?"
She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at the stars.
"You know," she said, "that while it may be all very well for you to say 'anything for art's sake,' I can't say it. I can't do it, either."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't. You know perfectly well that you can't follow me about taking notes every minute of the twenty-four hours."