"Or Joseph?"
"The best way would be to pretend it was all a mistake. Let us go to-morrow, and cry off as well as we can."
"We will, Cornelius."
The quarrel and its settlement made them thirsty, and they drank a whole potash-and-brandy each before proceeding with the interrupted conversation.
"Poor little Phillis!" said the Artist, filling his pipe. "I hope she won't pine much."
"Ariadne, you know," said the Poet; and then he forgot what Ariadne did, and broke off short.
"It isn't our fault, after all. Men of genius are always run after. Women are made to love men, and men are made to break their hearts. Law of nature, dear Cornelius—law of Nature. Perhaps the man is a fool who binds himself to one. Art alone should be our mistress—glorious Art!"
"Yes," said Cornelius; "you are quite right. And what about Mr. Gilead Beck?"
This was a delicate question, and the Artist's face grew grave.
"What are we to do, Cornelius?"