“They always frown at me.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t if you didn’t smile at them. Just what is it you are trying to get at?”
Wynne hesitated.
“You don’t know.”
“No, I don’t know yet—but some day I shall, and then won’t I let them have it!”
He closed his mouth tight, and there was a fierce resolve in his eyes.
“Then here’s a bit of advice for you. Don’t start quarrelling with the world you hope to reform. Remember other people must build the pulpit you hope to preach from. If you get their backs up before you’ve learnt your sermon no one but yourself will ever hear it. Lie low and gather all you can from the plains before you seek the Purple Patch on the hill top.”
“Purple Patch,” repeated Wynne.
“Yes. Every artist builds his tower on a Purple Patch, and in his early working days he sees it shining gloriously through the morning mists. There is honey heather there, larkspur and crimson asters, and all the air is brittle with new-born, virgin thoughts. I tell you, old son, that purple patch is worth making for, and it’s good to reflect when you have got there that you came by a gentleman’s way. There are some may call it Success, but I like the Purple Patch better. Success may be achieved at such a dirty price and the climber’s boots may be fouled with trodden flesh. Stick to the Purple Patch, Wynne, and you’ll be a man before you become a ghost.”
Before taking his leave Clem gave Wynne a five-pound note.