“No, but—it seems so callous, and—I want to live—and do great things—wonders. I don’t want to stare at a row of corpses.”
“There’s a fellow there”—he nodded his head toward the case—“who was an artist. He wanted to live and perform wonders too. Then he found out that he couldn’t—found out that a dozen idle, do-nothing fellows could outclass him at every turn. What happens? He puts a brick in pocket and jumps. Seems to me, with your ideas, you might learn something from the page of those cold features.”
“All right,” said Wynne; “lead away.”
They joined the crowd that slowly filed past the silent watchers.
“I’m glad I saw them,” he said, as they turned once more toward the door. “I never realized before what full-stop meant. It makes one feel the need to get on—and on. Death is so horribly conclusive.”
He drew a breath of air gratefully as they came into the sunlight.
“A cure for slackers, eh?” said the American.
“Yes—rather.”
He was a pleasant fellow, the American, and volunteered to share a table at lunch.
“Painting student?” he asked.