"Spare me, Iris. I will never do it again. And knowing so much, do you not desire to know more?"
"No, Arnold. I am not interested in anything else."
"But my position, my profession, my people—are you not curious to know them?"
"No. They are not you. They are accidents of yourself."
"Philosopher! But you must know more about me. I told you I was an artist. But you have never inquired whether I was a great artist or a little one."
"You are still a little artist," she said. "I know that, without being told. But perhaps you may become great when you learn to work seriously."
"I have been lazy," he replied with something like a blush, "but that is all over now. I am going to work. I will give up society. I will take my profession seriously, if only you will encourage me."
Did he mean what he said? When he came away he used at this period to ask himself that question, and was astonished at the length he had gone. With any other girl in the world, he would have been taken at his word, and either encouraged to go on, or snubbed on the spot. But Iris received these advances as if they were a confession of weakness.
"Why do you want me to encourage you?" she asked. "I know nothing about Art. Can't you encourage yourself, Arnold?"