“What about painting?”
“Art? All art is the expression of emotions—that’s the beginning and the finish of it, has been and ever shall be till the world’s end. Don’t turn up the light. The glow of the fire is quite enough to chat by.”
“What emotions do you feel when you’re painting ‘The Rebel’?”
“Disappointment. I see your face at the tip of my brush, but every touch I give is wrong—wrong.”
“I like it—Mr. West liked it.”
“Yes, but neither of you know what I mean it to be, or how far I am from expressing my meaning. It’s little better than a dolly anecdote daub. I’ve a good mind to paint Mrs. West after all; it would be fun.”
“How?”
“Why, this way. I’d just paint her absolutely true to life, show her empty soul peeping out of her dolly eyes. And everybody would say: ‘What a sweet, innocent face!’ Innocent! How many women are innocent because they’re impotent even to desire to be wicked.”
“Then paint her, and we’ll enjoy the joke.”
“But I can’t let West pay me for it. I’ll make it a belated wedding present.”