"But I haven't, mother," he insisted. "Of course, every painter worries. I did last winter—last winter—" He hesitated, conscious that last winter—on the snowy threshold of the new year—sorrow and pain and happiness and pity had, in an instant, assumed for him a significance totally new.
"Mother," he said slowly, "if I have changed it is only in a better understanding of the world and those who live in it. I have cared very little about people; I seem to have come to care more, lately. What they did, what they thought, hoped, desired, endured, suffered, interested me little except as it concerned my work. And somehow, since then, I am becoming interested in people for their own sakes. It's a—new sensation."
He smiled and laid his hand over hers:
"Do you know I never even appreciated what a good man Alexander Cameron is until recently. Why, mother, that man is one of the most generous, modest, kind, charitable, unselfish fellows in the world!"
"His behaviour is sometimes a little extraordinary," said his mother—"isn't it?"
"Oh, that's all on the surface! He's full of boyish spirits. He dearly loves a joke—but the greater part of that interminable funny business is merely to mask the modesty of a man whose particular perversity is a fear that people might discover how kind and how clever he really is!"
They walked on in silence for a while, then his mother said:
"Mr. Querida was here. Is he a friend of yours?"
Neville hesitated: "I'll tell you, mother," he said, "I don't find
Querida personally very congenial. But I have no doubt he's an
exceedingly nice fellow. And he's far and away the best painter in
America…. When did he go back to town?"
"Last week. I did not care for him."