“I do, well,” he replied, in a tone of proper melancholy, and painted on.
“And have you been to any other places,” I began again presently, “besides Rome and Piccy-what's-his-name?”
“Heaps,” he said. “I'm a sort of Ulysses—seen men and cities, you know. In fact, about the only place I never got to was the Fortunate Island.”
I began to like this man. He answered your questions briefly and to the point, and never tried to be funny. I felt I could be confidential with him.
“Wouldn't you like,” I inquired, “to find a city without any people in it at all?”
He looked puzzled. “I'm afraid I don't quite understand,” said he.
“I mean,” I went on eagerly, “a city where you walk in at the gates, and the shops are all full of beautiful things, and the houses furnished as grand as can be, and there isn't anybody there whatever! And you go into the shops, and take anything you want—chocolates and magic-lanterns and injirubber balls—and there's nothing to pay; and you choose your own house and live there and do just as you like, and never go to bed unless you want to!”
The artist laid down his brush. “That would be a nice city,” he said. “Better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in Rome—or in Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the places I've never been to.”
“And you'd ask your friends,” I went on, warming to my subject; “only those who you really like, of course; and they'd each have a house to themselves—there'd be lots of houses, and no relations at all, unless they promised they'd be pleasant, and if they weren't they'd have to go.”
“So you wouldn't have any relations?” said the artist. “Well, perhaps you're right. We have tastes in common, I see.”