'I hope not always to remain so,' he answered.
Betty went up the beautiful staircase, noting as she went its beauties, from storey to storey. She had not noticed it before, although it really took up more room than was proportionate to the size of the house. What did Pitt mean by those last words? she was querying. And could it be possible that the owner of a house like this, with a property corresponding, would not be of the world and live in the world like other men? He must, Betty thought. It is all very well for people who have not the means to make a figure in society, to talk of isolating themselves from society. A man may give up a little; but when he has much, he holds on to it. But how was it with Pitt? She must try and find out.
She accordingly made an attempt that same evening, beginning with the staircase again.
'I admired Inigo Jones all the way up-stairs,' she said, when she had an opportunity to talk to Pitt alone. Mr. Dallas had gone to sleep after dinner, and his wife was knitting at a sufficient distance. 'The quaint fancies and delicate work are really such as I never imagined before in wood-carving. But your words about it remain a puzzle to me.'
'My words? About art being an expression of truth? Surely that is not new?'
'It may be very old; but I do not understand it.'
'You understand, that so far as art is genuine, it is a setter forth of truth?'
'Well, I suppose so; of some truth. Roses must be roses, and trees must be trees; and of course must look as like the reality as possible.'
'That is the very lowest thing art can do, and in some cases is not true art at all. Her business is to tell truth—never to deceive.'
'What sort of truth then?'