hat! I've no profession, my dear young lady. I've no état civil. These things are a part of the complicated, ingenious machinery. As I say, I keep to the simplest way. I find that gives one enough to do. Merely to be is such a métier; to live is such an art; to feel is such a career!"
Bridget Dormer turned her back and examined her statue, and her brother said to his old friend: "And to write?"
"To write? Oh, I'll never do it again!"
"You have done it almost well enough to be inconsistent. That book of yours is anything but negative; it's complicated and ingenious."
"My dear fellow, I'm extremely ashamed of it," said Gabriel Nash.
"Ah, call yourself a bloated Buddhist and have done with it!" his companion exclaimed.
"Have done with it? I haven't the least desire for that. And why should one call one's self anything? One only deprives other people of their dearest occupation. Let me add that you don't begin to have an insight into the art of life till it ceases to be of the smallest consequence to you what you may be called. That's rudimentary."
"But if you go in for shades, you must also go in for names. You must distinguish," Dormer objected. "The observer is nothing without his categories, his types and varieties."
"Ah, trust him to distinguish!" said Gabriel Nash, sweetly. "That's for his own convenience; he has, privately, a terminology to meet it. That's one's style. But from the moment it's for the convenience of others, the signs have to be grosser, the shades begin to go. That's a deplorable hour! Literature,
