“Do you? Oh, the ‘Gioconda smile,’ you mean?—Yes.—In that instance, the man had only his silly sentimental self to blame. He has paid the biggest price given in our time for a living masterpiece. Sentimentalizing about masterpieces and sentimental prices will soon have seen their day, I expect. New masterpieces in painting will then appear again, perhaps, where the live ones leagued with the old dead ones disappear.—Really, the more one considers it, the more creditable and excellent my self-organization appears. I have a great deal to congratulate myself upon.”
Butcher blinked and pulled himself together with a grave dissatisfied expression.
“But will you carry it into effect to the extent?—Will you?—Would marriage be the ideal termination?”—Butcher had a way of tearing up and beginning all over again on a new breath.
“That is what Hobson asked.—No, I don’t think marriage has anything to do with it. That is another question altogether.”
“I thought your remarks about the housewife suggested⸺”
“No.—My relation to the idea of the housewife is platonic. I am attracted to the housewife as I might be attracted to the milliner. But just as I should not necessarily employ the latter to make hats—I should have some other use for her—so my connexion with the other need not imply a ménage. But my present difficulty centres round that question:
“What am I to do with Fräulein Lunken?”
Butcher drew himself up, and hiccuped solemnly and slowly.
He did not reply.
“Once again, is marriage out of the question?” Tarr asked.