“Other painters have shown me their pictures.”
“Which signifies—?”
“That this is one of the most beautiful pictures I have ever seen,” she replied.
“But why are you glad that I laughed?” asked Jimmie, in happy puzzledom.
“I have told you, Mr. Padgate, all that I am going to tell you.”
“I accept the inscrutable,” said he.
“Do you believe in the old pagan joy of life?” she asked after a pause. “I mean, was there, is there such a thing? One has heard of it; in fact it is a catch phrase that any portentous poseur has on the tip of his tongue. When one comes to examine it, however, it generally means champagne and oysters and an unpresentable lady, and it ends with liver and—and all sorts of things, don't you know. But you are not a poseur—I think you are the honestest man I have ever met—and yet you paint this creature as if you utterly believe in what he typifies.”
“It would go hard with me if I did n't,” said Jimmie. “I can't talk to you in philosophic terms and explain all my reasons, because I have read very little philosophy. When I do try, my head gets addled. I knew a chap once who used to devour Berkeley and Kant and all the rest, and used to write about them, and I used to sit at his feet in a kind of awed wonder at the tremendousness of his brain. A man called Smith. He was colossally clever,” he added after a reflective pause. “But I can only grope after the obvious. Don't you think the beauty of the world is obvious?”
“It all depends upon which world,” said Norma.
“Which world? Why, God's world. It is sweet to draw the breath of life. I love living; don't you?”