"Every now and then there is a revolt from the accepted order of things. New groups form, sometimes damning what they call the artificial lighting of the studio, sometimes exclaiming against the carnival of harmonious or crude colour generally known as 'plein air.' Impressionists scorn the classic, and vice versa. But, Miss West, as a matter of fact, all schools are as good as all religions.
"To speak of studio lighting as artificial and unworthy is silly. It is pretty hard to find anything really artificial in the world, indoors, or out, or even in the glare of the footlights. I think the main idea is that a man should prefer doing what the public calls his work, to any other form of recreation—should use enough reason—not too much—enough inspiration—but watching himself at every brush stroke; and finally should feel physically unfettered—that is, have the a b c, the drudgery, the artisan's part of the work at his finger tips. Then, if he does what makes him happy, whether in a spirit of realism or romanticism, he can safely leave the rest to Fate."
He looked at her, curiously for a moment, then a smile wholly involuntary broke over his face:
"Lord! What a lecture! And you listened to all that nonsense like an angel!"
The dreamy absorption died out in her eyes; she clasped her hands on her knee, looked down, then up at him almost irritably:
"Please go on, Mr. Neville."
"Not much. I've a few stunts to execute aloft there—"
He contemplated her in amused silence, which became more serious:
"You have talent, Miss West. Artistic talent is not unusual among Americans, but patience is. That is one reason why talent accomplishes so little in this country."
"Isn't another reason that patience is too expensive to be indulged in by talent?"