Mr. Lambert looked as if a cannon had suddenly been discharged in his ear. For fully thirty seconds he was quite speechless; then pulling himself together, he articulated,
“A what?”
“A painter,” Paul repeated.
“Do you mean a house-painter, or—” here Mr. Lambert raised his eyes to the ceiling as if invoking the mercy of the gods upon this benighted youth, “or an artist?”
“I’m afraid I mean an artist, sir.”
“A person who,” Mr. Lambert went through a tragic pantomime of painting in the air, “who paints pictures?”
“Yes,” said Paul briefly.
There was a long pause while Mr. Lambert struggled to assimilate this preposterous idea. At last a tolerant, half-pitying smile spread over his features.
“My dear boy, we all have foolish notions in our youth. You will get over this nonsense. Meanwhile, be so good as never to mention it to me again.” And without another word, he left the room.
“Well!” said Paul aloud, “I certainly didn’t accomplish much. Where do I stand, anyhow?” Again the picture of the cross-roads rose in his mind, again the thought of the city.