"So glad I don't know how?"
"So glad of it all. Yes, that only makes it better. You're a delightful case, and I like delightful cases. We must see it through. I rejoice that I met you."
"Do you think I can do anything?" Nick inquired.
"Paint good pictures? How can I tell till I've seen some of your work? Doesn't it come back to me that at Oxford you used to sketch very prettily? But that's the last thing that matters."
"What does matter, then?" Nick demanded, turning his eyes on his companion.
"To be on the right side—on the side of beauty."
"There will be precious little beauty if I produce nothing but daubs."
"Ah, you cling to the old false measure of success. I must cure you of that. There will be the beauty of having been disinterested and independent; of having taken the world in the free, brave, personal way."
"I shall nevertheless paint decently if I can," Nick declared.
"I'm almost sorry! It will make your case less clear, your example less grand."
"My example will be grand enough, with the fight I shall have to make."
"The fight—with whom?"
"With myself, first of all. I'm awfully against it."
"Ah, but you'll have me on the other side," smiled Nash.
"Well, you'll have more than a handful to meet—everything, every one that belongs to me, that touches me, near or far: my family, my blood, my heredity, my traditions, my
