"Oh! I give you my head in a charger," said Delorme, not without heat.
"For you, Burne-Jones is 'pure' and I am 'decadent'; because he paints
anemic knights in sham armour and I paint what I see."
"The one absolutely fatal course! Don't you agree?"
Boden turned smiling to Mrs. Manisty, of whose lovely head and soft eyes
he was conscious through all the chatter.
The eyes responded.
"What do we see?" she said, with her shy smile. "Surely we only see what
we think--or dream!"
"True!" cried Delorme; "but a painter thinks _in paint_."
"There you go," said Boden, "with your esoteric stuff. All your great
painters have thought and felt with the multitude--painted for the
multitude."
"Never." The painter jerked away his cigar, and sat up. "The multitude is
a brute beast!"
"A just beast," murmured Boden.
"Anything but!" said the painter. "But you know my views. In every
generation, so far as art is concerned, there are about thirty men who
matter--in all the world!"
"Artists?" The voice was Lucy Manisty's.
"Good heavens, no! Artists--and judges--together. The gate of art is a
deal straiter than the gate of Heaven."
Boden caught Victoria's laugh.
"Let him alone," he said, indulgently. "His is the only aristocracy I can
stand--with apologies to my hostess."
"Oh, we're done for," said Victoria, quietly.
Boden turned a humorous eye, first to the great house basking in the
sunshine, then to his hostess.
"Not yet.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245