“I wonder are you as impressionable as you used to be? And—it’s a beastly word, but there is no other—and as romantic as you still appear to be? As far as I know, you’ve never really been in love, George: perhaps it’s better that way for a painter or a poet, never to feel very deeply. He should understand deep feelings, but never experience them. What do you think?”
“I don’t think about art. Art’s in us, and comes out as well as it can. That’s all there is to it. There’s only one rule of art: don’t lie, don’t make up things; and if you can hit on a new truth, or can tell an old truth perfectly, you’re a genius. That’s all.”
“What are you?”
“How can I know?”
“You’re not in love, George?”
“What the deuce makes you say that? Who said I was?”
“Nobody. But I thought you were at first—with Mrs. What’s-her-name, who should have been here. But you can’t be, or not badly, or you would not have talked ‘shop’ so enthusiastically.”
“That’s no proof. I don’t think I could ever love a woman as much as I do my work. I can’t believe that, if ever I had to choose between my work and a woman, I should choose the woman.”
“Touch wood, old chap, touch wood; though even that powerful magic won’t make you safe. Just wait till ‘she’ comes along, and then, Lord preserve you! You—I can see you just mad for a woman.”
“You’re wrong. No woman I’ve ever seen has made me forget myself.”