"He thinks no end of your painting."
"I'm not denying he's a judge of painting. I'm not even denying he can
paint a little himself."
"Better than you, Roly."
"If you allow for the singular, obscene ugliness of his imagination,
yes."
"It's beautiful enough when he gets it into paint," she said. "He makes
beauty. His own beauty."
"Oh, very much his own."
"Well, _you_ just go on imitating other people's--God's or somebody's."
She continued with her air of perfect reasonableness. "I know he isn't
good-looking. Not half so good-looking as you are. But I like him. I
like his slender little body and his clever, faded face. There's a
quality about him, a distinction. And look at his eyes. _Your_ mind
doesn't come rushing and blazing out of your eyes, my dear."
"No. No. I'm afraid it doesn't rush. And for all the blaze--"
"Well, that's what I'm in love with, the rush, Roly, and the blaze. And
I'm in love, _for the first time_" (she underlined it) "with a man."
"Come," I said, "come."
"Oh, _I_ know. I know you're thinking of Lawson Young and Dickey
Harper.
Pages:
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456